


A Sure Thing

by Hatterized



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, F/M, Hurt Rick, Insecure Rick, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Negan, Protective Michonne, Smut, well...he's like half oblivious and half asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatterized/pseuds/Hatterized
Summary: Negan's in a sexual slump, and who better to try to seduce than his friend Rick Grimes, who hasn't gotten laid since his wife passed away? He seems like an easy enough target. Never mind that Rick doesn't know why Negan's suddenly pursuing him, or that it's just for one night.





	1. Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Just a mean little idea I cooked up. Hope you guys enjoy!

“I’m in a fucking dry spell,” Negan concedes after his fifth Corona, lime rinds soaking through his ruined napkin and turning it into a soggy pile on the tabletop. “It’s been two goddamned months.”

“I _know_ ,” Simon grunts, both of his eyes still following the curvy redhead that had turned Negan down _flat not ten fucking minutes ago, you insensitive pornstached cockweasel._ “You mentioned it once or twice.”

The “or half a dozen times just since we’ve been here” goes unsaid, but Negan can hear it ringing in his ears nonetheless. He never thought he’d be in more of a rut than fucking _Simon_ , who, yes, has nice arms, but also looks like a nineties pornstar gone to pot in the worst possible way, in Negan’s completely unbiased opinion. He scratches his chin and wonders idly if he should grow out his beard again. Maybe the clean-shaven look isn’t for him after all.

“Tough luck, man.” Rosita plonks down on the other side of Negan with a generous glass of whiskey that she definitely didn’t drop a dime on if the way the scummy bartender’s leering at her has anything to say about it. “Should have been a smokin’ hot girl instead.”  She sips her drink like she’s in a highfalutin cigar club and not a frankly mundane sports bar that serves wings by the pound. “Or maybe not,” she considers, “the free drinks are a small compensation for the amount of douchebags that were trying to eye-grope my tits up there.” Negan’s sure that she’s here just to mock him whenever he gets shot down and to get free drinks from guys that don’t have enough sense to notice the engagement ring sparkling ruby-red on her left hand.

It’s her, Simon, Arat, Andrea, Glenn, and Jesus tonight. They have a nice rotating gang, and tonight they’re the chosen few that are either off work or don’t have to get up early enough tomorrow that it matters if they get tanked at one a.m. on a Wednesday. Glenn is only a shot and a half deep- a goddamned _half_ shot- and is already pink-cheeked and giggly and glancing at his phone every two minutes for texts from his wife, Maggie, who opted to stay at home because _There’s no way I’m goin’ out to a bar just to watch a bunch of non-pregnant people get hammered while I eat my weight in tater tots._ Andrea and Jesus are having some pseudo-intellectual conversation about the economy or some shit, and Arat’s been missing for a good twenty minutes now. Negan has reason to suspect that she and the woman she’d been chatting up at the bar have snuck off to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what, and Negan sorely wishes that it was him motorboating some chick in the back alley of a bar.

“You know what your problem is?” Andrea chimes in suddenly, somehow heroically managing to pull away from her conversation long enough to acknowledge Negan’s existence.

“I’m intimidatingly handsome and charming and it puts people off their game?” Negan ventures hopefully. Andrea gives him a sassy, disbelieving look in return- fair play.

“You’re going after the wrong people. You never go for the desperate ones. It’s always the girls here with their friends or the guys who are clearly so far in the closet that just looking at another man makes them feel the need to go to church.” Beside her, Jesus snorts, probably thinking of a nice sharp-witted retort to that. “You need someone easier.”

Negan pouts. “I like the thrill of the chase.” Never mind that he keeps coming up empty-handed.

“She’s right, though,” Simon pipes up. “You just need a palette cleanser. Something to wet your whistle again, get you back in the game. Doesn’t have to be a big thing. Use ‘em and lose ‘em.”

Which is all well and good, except-

“I can’t fucking tell who’s that desperate,” Negan admits. The bar, to him, looks like a minefield of potential rejection at the moment. As it turns out, getting out of a four-year relationship means relearning a _lot_ of shit about being single.

“You know who’s desperate?” Jesus offers up, grinning wickedly. Negan cocks his head with interest, the need to know only growing when Andrea shushes him and shakes her head. “What?” he asks with a shrug, “am I wrong?”

Andrea bites her lip. She looks a little guilty, like she knows that Jesus is right but doesn’t want to admit it, and oh _boy_ does Negan want to know who they’re taking about now.

“Who is it?” he demands, leaning forward with elbows on the tabletop. “Someone hot? You got their number?”

“He’s hot,” Andrea admits reluctantly, and suddenly Glenn’s head whips around.

“Are you guys talking about Rick?”

Negan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“ _Rick_ ,” he repeats disbelievingly, trying the name out on his tongue and liking the way it sounds. “Rick _Grimes_?”

Their collective silence says it all. Rosita’s suddenly enamored with the menu even though she’d sworn up and down that she wasn’t going to waste money on the overpriced and underwhelming burgers. Glenn downs the rest of his shot with a shamefaced look, realizing what he’s done.

Negan rolls that thought around in his head for a moment, pondering. Rick Grimes- single father of two, widower of four years, often the designated driver when he went out with them because he’s protective like that. Sweet, thoughtful, of a bit reserved most of the time, but Negan likes him pretty well. He was a big help after Lucille had broken things off with him.

And, _yeah_ , Rick is hot. It isn’t that Negan hadn’t noticed until now, it’s just that Rick comes with baggage, and a lot of it. Dead wife, a teenager and a toddler, retired from the sheriff’s department three years ago because he’d taken a bullet on the job. Sure, when Jesus had first introduced them, Negan had eyed him up- he was gorgeous, after all. Wild chestnut curls, peppery beard, striking blue eyes and a strong, muscular body. His lips were a pretty shade of pink that made it too easy to picture him on his knees and his cute, perky ass made it too easy to picture him bent over the side of Negan’s bed.

But still, he’d always struck Negan as a serious relationship kind of guy, not an easy lay.

Andrea nods. “Yeah. That Rick.”

Rick fucking Grimes. There's no way.

“You’re fucking with me,” Negan insists. “You just want to see him turn me down.”

“Nope,” Jesus says, popping the p. “Rick needs it pretty bad. More than you do, actually.”

Negan rolls his eyes, but then it hits him- when has he ever seen Rick flirt with someone? Go home with someone, get their number?

Never, not to his memory. But surely-

“You’re telling me,” Negan says slowly, trying to work it all out in his head, “that Rick hasn’t gotten laid since-”

“Since Lori,” Andrea confirms.

Lori, who passed away four years ago this past July. Lori, who had been the love of Rick’s life and the mother of his children, his high school sweetheart.

“Damn,” Negan muses, and then, because he’s an irreverent asshole at his core, “no wonder he’s got such a stick up his ass.”

Andrea glares at that- she adores Rick, is one of his closest friends. “Watch your mouth.” There’s a warning in her eyes- _he’s too good to be your break-the-rut fuck_. Negan finds that he doesn’t really care so long as he gets to pull that stick out of Rick’s perky ass and replace it with his dick.

“Grimes?” Simon inquires, suddenly returning to the conversation. Probably because he realized that someone other than Negan was speaking for once. “Oh, yeah. He’ll put out for you.”

And isn’t that just the prettiest goddamn picture- Rick Grimes, cute little stepford husband, on his hands and knees and taking it up the ass from _Negan_ of all people because nobody else wants to step into the mountain of shit-filled baggage that is his life. Rick Grimes, so desperate to get fucked that he’s willing to beg, to degrade himself-

“I actually thought about trying to get in bed with him,” Jesus admits, making everyone’s head wheel around to face him. “I just…I’m not ready for all that, you know?”

Oh, Negan knows. It goes unspoken at the table, but _everyone_ knows.

“It’s been bad lately,” Rosita says. “Tara said he’d been eyeing up Jessie Anderson the other day, and Carl and Ron hate each other’s guts. _And_ Rick was the one who arrested her husband.” She shakes her head. “He needs a good fuck to get his head on straight before he does something stupid. Jessie’s not in a good place to be dating right now.”

Simon nods sagely, the aura of wisdom contrasting heavily with his mustache and faded Pink Floyd tee that Negan’s pretty sure he had back in college. “Pretty sure he’d give it up for just about anyone right now. He came out with us on Saturday, right? Some guy paid for his beer because he saw him standing around lookin’ awkward, and I’m pretty sure he had a semi for the rest of the night.”

Negan considers this- considers fucking his friend. The only drawback is-

“I don’t like to shit where I eat,” he says. He likes their group dynamic, and god forbid a one-night stand fuck all that up.

Simon shrugs. “That’s up to you, man. But you need someone who’s gonna spread ‘em for you, and Rick? He’s a sure thing.”

* * *

It doesn’t take Negan long to weigh the pros and cons in favor of fucking Rick. After all, he was practically encouraged to do it. If Rick ends up being a little bitch about it all and gets his feelings hurt, he can blame Jesus and Simon.

It starts with a beer-and-Netflix night at Negan’s house that he only invites the others to as a front to get Rick there with him alone. He’s got it all planned, right down to stocking Rick’s favorite brand of bourbon in his liquor cabinet.

When the evening comes and everyone has “last minute emergencies”, Rick still shows up with a case of Negan’s preferred beer and a smile on his face.

“Already paid Noah to babysit for the night,” he shrugs, setting the case on the chipped linoleum countertop. He’s wearing a worn gray t-shirt that gives just a hint of what’s beneath, hanging a little loosely from his firm chest. “May as well get a night to myself, right? You don’t mind that it’s just me, do you?” He looks worried suddenly, like he thinks he’s intruding instead of keeping Negan company on what would have been an otherwise gloomy evening.

“Not at all, darlin’,” Negan drawls with a wink that makes Rick’s cheeks go pink. “I’m glad to see you.”

He pours the man a bourbon and they put on some drama-thriller that Negan chose specifically because of a certain scene midway through. Even though he was assured Rick was a sure thing, he wanted to have a little buildup to getting him in bed. Just to be safe.

Negan’s not even remotely paying attention to the screen, just subtly trying to watch Rick while Rick watches the movie, gauge his reactions, his mood.

Halfway through, there’s a raunchy sex scene that drags on for a good five minutes- tits and ass, fake moaning, the whole shebang. Negan’s eyeing the way Rick shifts and squirms beside him and thinks, _gotcha_.

If he’s less than subtle in his approach, it’s because he’s out of practice and already confident that the night will end with him balls-deep inside Rick.

He leans in a little closer than necessary to whisper in Rick’s ear, “damn, they’re really going at it, huh? Sorry, I didn’t know it’d be this fucking long. Guess I should have read the reviews.”

He can practically _feel_ the shudder run down Rick’s spine. “It’s, uh. It’s okay,” he manages, his voice all strained and sexy.

“It’s just been a while,” Negan laments against Rick’s skin ruffling the curls tucked behind his ear. Rick stiffens. “For me, I mean. Hard to see shit like that and not want it, you know?”

“I know,” Rick practically whimpers. His face is so hot that Negan can feel the warmth radiating from him like rays of the sun.

It’s over the moment Rick turns his head. Negan crushes their lips together and internally gloats when he hears Rick’s breath hitch in his throat, feels him grasp desperately at Negan’s shoulders as his tongue is sucked on.

“Fuck, I want you,” Negan grunts between kisses, and Rick’s nodding, and Negan makes a mental note to buy Jesus and Simon drinks next time they’re out. He covers Rick’s body with his own and _fuck, Rick’s already hard-_ Negan can feel the hard press of his cock through the layers of their jeans. Rick’s hips buck into his minutely, and Negan decides to take mercy on him, sliding a hand down to rub him through the denim.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Rick hisses, head tipping back against the couch cushions.

After that, getting Rick into bed is _nothing_. Getting him naked is nothing, and it strikes Negan as he guides Rick down to his knees and the man undoes his belt and zipper, lips pink and parted, that there’s very little that he couldn’t get Rick to do in this moment.

For now, though, he settles for getting his dick sucked by a naked and flushed Rick Grimes, who’s _touching himself_ as Negan pulls his hair and fucks his face.

Negan gets him on the bed with no trouble, rolls him onto his belly and slides slick fingers into him. He’s feeling pretty damn good about his prowess, because Rick’s practically fucking himself on his fingers and has to grab himself and squeeze hard to stop from coming early. 

“Spread your legs for me, beautiful,” Negan croons, and Rick does it immediately, so eager and obedient. _Too fucking easy_ , Negan almost laughs. Instead, he hums, “Good boy,” lets his eyes roam over Rick’s body, exposed and vulnerable in the most intimate way possible. His balls are already drawn up tight, so ready for release, and Negan can see the way his heavy cock is dripping onto the sheets as he waits to be fucked.

_Christ_ , that man's body is a work of art. 

His hands settle on Rick’s ass and he spreads him apart, licks his lips at the sight of Rick’s most intimate place all soft and slick and open, just for him.

The noise that Rick makes on the initial inward push is delicious, and Negan already knows he’ll be replaying it over and over in his head for the next week while he’s getting off on his own. Low, agonized, desperate, lust-filled and delicious. Before Negan's even fully sheathed, Rick's pushing his hips back for more. 

It doesn’t take long for Rick to come- not with how long it’s been for him, not with the position Negan’s fucking him in, his prostate mercilessly pounded until he’s literally biting the pillow and shouting hoarsely as he paints Negan’s sheets white.

Negan fucks him for another solid minute before coming hard surrounded by the tight, slick walls of Rick’s ass. Rick’s thighs are spread so wide for him that it looks like it should hurt, but he’s not complaining, and neither is Negan.

“My turn,” Rick growls fifteen minutes later once they've caught their breath, and to Negan’s surprise, Rick is _good_ \- much better than expected for someone who’s never slept with a man before. It’s all the pent up tension and need- Rick’s got one hand on the headboard and one on Negan’s hip to better plow into him, aggressively fucking in like it’ll be his last good lay for another four years, and _fuck_ , it's so good that Negan can't do anything but moan Rick's name. 

Negan’s having the time of his goddamned life. He squeezes Rick between his thighs, jerks himself off in time with the man’s thrusts, comes all over their stomachs, and squeezes all around Rick to make him spill hot and deep inside him.

A half hour and a few glasses of water later, Rick’s back on Negan’s dick, riding him with wild abandon for a few solid minutes before Negan takes over and grabs his hips, fucking up into him and making him positively _scream_.

Negan had never pegged Rick for a screamer, but you learn something new every day.

“Turn around, honey,” Negan gasps out, knowing that he’s being cruel. Rick had been just about to come, he could tell, but like a good boy, Rick raises up on his knees, lets Negan’s cock slip out of his body, and turns so that he’s facing away. Negan reaches up, spreads Rick’s ass wide, licks his lips when he sees the head of his own dick catch on the stretched, wet rim of Rick’s opening. He grabs Rick by the hips and pushes up into him, making the man's curls bounce as his head drops back and he lets out an obscenely loud moan.

“Oh, _god_.” His fingers dig into Negan’s thighs in the most delicious way as he takes it. " _Oh, fuck, I_ \- _Negan_ -!"

_Sounds like a goddamned porn star_ , Negan thinks to himself.

Rick finishes first, letting himself be used afterward by Negan to get off, and if he’s embarrassed by his lack of stamina, he makes up for it with enthusiasm, groaning low in this throat while Negan bounces him his lap. The strong muscles in Rick’s thick thighs strain with the effort, and Negan smacks his ass once lightly before spreading it again to admire the way Rick’s stretched around his dick.

It’s the best night Negan’s had in a long, long time: he comes three times and Rick leaves after a quick shower to wash away the evidence of their tryst- “I promised Noah I’d be back before midnight.” Easy peasy lemon squeezy, Negan doesn’t even have to make up some lame reason that Rick can’t stay the night.

Negan falls asleep on the couch because he had to strip the sheets to shove them in the washer, and he feels happy and sated for the first time in months.


	2. Dodge

Negan definitely should have noticed that something's up when Rick texts him the next morning.

_I had a really good time last night._

And, hey, it’s been a while since Negan’s hooked up with a friend, so that’s probably the protocol, right? It’s not like he and Rick have never hung or talked out one-on-one before. It’s not weird. He'll occasionally send Rick dumb cat videos or go over to his house to hang out with him and the kids, split a pizza and blow jalapeno breath at Carl when he complains about Negan's weird toppings. He likes Rick's kids, and Rick's honestly better to hang out with one-on-one, when he doesn't feel obligated to play dad so everyone gets home safe. 

Negan shoots him a quick text before work.

_Ditto._

He doesn’t see Rick’s reply until his lunch break: _You going to Roamer's with us Thursday night?_

Oh, yeah, he’d been meaning to let Tara know that he was coming to her not-party to celebrate her promotion. He likes Tara, despite the fact that she’s stolen Rosita’s heart and Negan kind of wanted to see if she’d take him for a spin before settling down, but hey, all’s fair. And they’re cute together anyway, in that nauseating way that couples are to the perpetually single.

 _Yeah_ , he sends back, _see you there_.

He snorts when Rick replies five seconds later with a cheery, overeager _Sounds good!_ Negan considers telling him to lay off a little, they don’t have to be best fucking buddies just because they screwed around once, but he figures Rick’s probably just in a good mood after finally getting laid after four years of celibacy, so he lets it go.

When he gets back home after work, he finds his mind wandering back to Rick. To those plush pink lips wrapped around his dick, taking Negan's cock down his throat like a champ. Negan palms his stiffening length through his sweatpants, stretching out on the couch until his feet bump the arm. Rick really seemed to know what he was doing down there, he thinks- has he actually fucked around with men before, or is he just a natural? Four years is a long time to go without getting laid, he probably spent a lot of it imagining exactly what he wants in bed. He wonders if that's what Rick was thinking about when he was touching himself while sucking Negan off- his own cock getting sucked just the way he likes it. 

 _Maybe I should have offered_ , Negan thinks. He's usually the first one to go down on someone, but Rick was just so eager, and then all he could think about was getting inside of that tight ass before he blew his load in Rick's mouth or on his pretty face. 

Now he has all the time in the world to think about Rick in every position imaginable. He rubs himself to the thought of Rick up against the wall, his perfect, muscled chest bare and shuddering as Negan blows him. 

Rick had been insatiable yesterday. Negan would bet money that if he hadn't had the babysitter waiting on him, he would have gone another round. They'd both have been a little tired out, but Negan could have convinced him to climb on top of him and sixty-nine. He groans and fucks faster into his hand at the thought, the couch creaking. Rick could swallow his cock the way he's so good at, and Negan could bury his have between those gorgeous thighs, suck Rick a little to warm him up and then kiss his way up to that perfect ass and see how loud Rick Grimes gets when he's being eaten out. He'd still be soft and open from Negan fucking him, so he'd just have to spread him open and dive right in-

" _Fuck, Rick-!_ " Negan grunts and huffs as he comes, riding out the high for as long as he can. Afterwards, he's spent and sticky and now he's going to have to find a different pair of sweatpants, but it was more than worth it. 

* * *

Roamer’s Pub is moderately packed for a Thursday night when Negan steps in. He spots his group immediately, huddled together in a few booths on the left of the room by the jukebox so that Glenn can play DJ. Rick’s there just like he said he’d be, already nursing his single Miller Lite, his status quo for nights out. _What a fucking square_ , Negan thinks as he gives Tara a congratulatory hug. “Congrats, darlin’,” he grins, “first round’s on me.” He leers at Rick. “You want a shot, Ricky?” he says a little mockingly, because he’s never actually seen Rick take a shot because he’s a _fucking square_. The hardest he’s ever seen Rick go is getting slightly buzzed off a Manhattan on his birthday.

Predictably, Rick shakes his head no, but Negan’s already turning away- why wait for an answer he already knows? He comes back with a round of tequila and downs two before sliding into the booth beside Jesus, brandishing his free booze. “One for the Good Lord?” he croons, all over-the-top and syrupy because that’s just how he and Jesus roll. “I still owe you another, by the way,” he tacks on when Jesus sets his empty glass back on the table. He quirks one eyebrow at him and Negan grins lasciviously, eyes flicking less-than-subtly over at Rick, who’s trying to convince Glenn to play some hillbilly bluegrass garbage. _This is exactly why we put Glenn in charge, cowboy_ , Negan thinks. _Nobody wants to hear that trash._ They all hear it enough on the rides home Rick gives them, that horrible country-banjo-beer-for-my-horses sad-cowboy bullshit that Rick loves singing along to, all loud and off-key. It’s the most Negan ever sees him cut loose, like Rick thinks all his friends are too drunk off their assess to notice that he’s trying to start a goddamned rodeo in his station wagon. It’s the price they pay for a consistent designated driver, he supposes.

Jesus nods. “Yeah, I thought he was in a good mood tonight. Good for you, man.”

“Finally broke out of that slump,” Negan agrees, and then somehow, for some reason, Rick’s beside him in the booth, so close that their thighs press together and their elbows knock a little when Negan reaches for the margarita pitcher. Still with the fucking Miller Lite, only half-empty with the label picked at in some places.

“Hey,” Rick says, his honey-dipped twang all warm and sweet. “Good to see you again.” He smiles a smile that’s just for Negan, something sly and flirtatious sparkling in his eyes. Negan thinks that maybe he’s angling for another round, maybe up against a bathroom stall with Negan’s hand over his pretty mouth to keep the noise down, but then he leans up a little and pecks Negan on the cheek like he’s a cute little housewife saying goodbye to her husband. It's a gesture that he's seen Rosita and Tara do all the time, all couple-y and saccharine. 

He hasn't been kissed in a casual way like that since Lucille. He'd always teased her about it because she loved to wear bright cherry-red lipstick, and he played it off like he didn't want red smudges all over his cheek. It had become a little routine between them in the mornings before work, one he hasn't thought about in months. 

Negan can practically _feel_ the rest of the group’s eyes on them trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.

Negan’s trying to figure out the same thing. His eyes dart from Rick’s expectant face over to Simon, who’s just walking in, and Negan immediately sends him _save-me_ eyes.

Simon’s a good friend, so he swoops in immediately, plonking himself down across from them and grinning. “Getting cozy, boys?” he taunts, and Rick’s face heats up.

They chat a while, toast to Tara, and the whole time Rick is stuck to Negan’s side like glue. He’s in the best mood Negan’s seen him in possibly ever, even going so far as to talk to Simon and Arat, who are usually more standoffish with him. He’s all smiles and warmth, which would be a huge step up from his usual reserved quietude if he wasn’t constantly touching Negan’s arm or offering to go grab the next round with him. He’s acting like he and Negan are a fucking _couple_ , and Negan thinks that he’d better nip that in the bud before it gets any worse and Rick’s inviting him out for Sunday brunch with his kids or some shit.

He insists on going to get the next round on his own, and while he’s waiting, he sidles up to a cute guy with tattoos up his forearms and a barely-there touch of eyeliner that gives Negan a little hope that he has a chance.

It turns out that Rick was his slump-buster after all, because he buys the guy a whiskey sour and the guy- Ryan, he introduces himself as- rests a hand on his back and tips his head toward the bathrooms with mischief in his eyes. 

One hand in Ryan’s shirt, Negan tugs him inside the blessedly-empty men’s restroom, locks the stall behind them and pulls out a condom.

Negan was right about one thing- he was definitely in need of the kind of low-down, filthy sex that comes in the bathroom stall of a bar. He’s pounding away, hands tight on Ryan’s hips, so fucking close-

The bathroom door creaks open, giving them a faint glimmer of the noise from the bar before swinging closed again. Ryan and Negan both try and fail to smother their laughter into sweat-dappled skin, and Ryan peers at Negan over his shoulder, whispers, “guess we have an audience.”

Negan’s grin is devilish. “Guess you’ll just have to be quiet for me then, huh?”

He’s not sure what to make of the fact that it takes them both less than a minute to come. They’d been at it for a fair few minutes, so maybe it means nothing at all. They zip back up, Ryan tosses the condom, and they step out together, sure that the mystery pisser has left by now. They didn’t notice him leaving, but hey- they were a little preoccupied. Negan’s feeling pretty pleased with himself right up until he catches sight of the man standing stock-still at the sinks.

Rick’s face in the mirror says tells a story that Negan’s not sure he wants to hear. The sink is still running and paper towels are clasped in his damp hands. Ryan chuckles, says, “Whoops, sorry, man,” and leaves with a wink thrown in Negan’s direction.

Rick is still standing there like Negan is Medusa and he’s been turned to stone.

He has the audacity- the fucking _nerve_ \- to look hurt. It’s a bad look on him, and Negan wants to tell him so. Tell him he looks pathetic, like a fucking kicked puppy, and if he was going to be such a little bitch about this he could have just grown a pair and asked Negan to fuck him against the graffitied bathroom wall instead for trying to play his soppy date all night.

“Got a problem, Rick?” Negan snaps, a little annoyed. All he wants is those sad blue eyes off of him because they’re making him itchy and uncomfortable and guilty when he has _no fucking reason to feel like that_ , and he gets his wish. Rick drops his gaze to the faux-marble countertop, his cheeks burning.

 _Serves him right for being such a clingy fucking lay_ , Negan thinks as he pushes the door open and heads back out to the bar. He immerses himself in a conversation about the woes of the public education system with Maggie, who teaches ninth grade Social Studies at the same school Negan works at.

He doesn’t notice that Rick hasn’t returned to their corner of the bar until Simon approaches him with a high-five.

“Holy shit, man! Grimes really broke you outta your funk after all!” He claps Negan on the back. “How was he?”

“Rick, or the guy I fucked in the bathroom?” Negan asks with a wicked grin, and Simon howls. 

“Grimes. C’mon, spill the dirty details. He had to go home early, somethin’ about his kids- no need to censor that shit.”

Maggie pulls a face. "I _know_ you're not about to talk about this right here." There's a warning in her eyes, something that makes Negan feel scolded, but then Simon pipes up again. 

"You don't gotta stay if you don't wanna hear the nitty-gritty, Ms. Rhee." Negan stiffens, because Simon's been told over and over again not to use that condescending voice on Maggie- or _anyone,_  but especially Maggie, because she's the most liable to give him a good smack across the face for it. It looks like it's a close call, too, because her fingers twitch on the table for a moment before she blows a long breath out through her teeth. 

"I don't want to hear shit about you not playin' nice with Rick," she warns as she stands up. "He deserves a hell of a lot better than whatever you gave him."

She levels Negan and Simon both with a deadly look before joining Tara and Glenn at the jukebox. Simon scoffs and turns back to Negan, overeager in his voyeuristic need for details. "Forget her. C'mon, man. Let it all fly."

“He was better than I thought he’d be,” Negan admits. “You were right, though. Gettin’ him in bed was almost too fucking easy.”

Simon shakes his head with disappointment. “That’s it?”

Negan grins and leans in conspiratorially. “For a guy that’s never fucked around with another man, he takes it pretty well. Had him moaning and begging for it like a twenty-dollar whore.” He recalls the way Rick rode him, hard and dirty and clenching around him like he was trying to milk the orgasm right out of Negan’s dick, and nearly moans at the thought. “Got a tight little ass, too.”

All in all, it’s a good night, and if Michonne gives him a dirty look when they’re all calling their cabs home, Negan doesn’t notice it.


	3. Type

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really and truly going to direct you to [The Chainsmokers song My Type](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o16rCMSVfI8) for this chapter because 1. I'm mean and 2. my music taste is shitty and shameless. I originally used it as a sort of muse for a unrequited love high school au that I was never going to actually write, but then I listened to it yesterday and realized it fit pretty well here. So there ya go.
> 
> Also heads up for a very brief mention of past homophobia.

It takes too long for Rick to catch on. He’d give anything, _anything_ , to have gotten a damn clue sooner so that he isn't standing here now, paper towels twisted in his fists like a towel ready to snap.

He knows that if he saw his own face in the mirror, he would hate himself. He can feel the hot, humiliated blush burning not only across his cheeks, but beneath his collar, making sweat prickle there.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it. Not when Negan had been almost obnoxiously blasé when they’d spoken, not when he’d seen him checking out every other person that walked by their booth, not when the man had disentangled himself from Rick with an air of annoyance to go chat up some guy at least fifteen years younger than him at the bar.

But there he is, stepping out of the stall with that same guy, hair ruffled and cheeks pinked. Rick hates that it reminds him of how Negan had looked underneath him and on top of him, hates that he can match the muffled noises of pleasure that had come from the stall to the ones that had been moaned in his ear just a few short nights ago.

He hates that it hurts, and even worse, that he can’t _hide_ it. It feels like he’s holding his insides in his hands and giving them a squeeze instead of the paper towels, and all of a sudden he’s fifteen again, that shy, quiet kid that people threw the word _queer_ at like hurled stones even after he started dating Lori.

“Got a problem, Rick?” Negan snaps nastily, eyes narrowed like he’s daring Rick to say something about what he’s just seen. The door bangs shut behind him as he leaves, and Rick is alone.

It takes him a minute to collect himself, bundling up the shattered remains of his pride before slipping out of the bathroom with his tail between his legs. He hugs Tara, tells her he’s proud and that she deserves it, because he is and she does. He makes up some excuse about Judith getting sick so he can leave with some grace.

Negan hasn’t so much as glanced his way. He's saying something to Simon too low for him to catch, but the way Simon's leering at him lets him know it isn't good.

He’s nearly out the door when a warm hand catches his arm and draws him back. He turns into the touch to see Michonne looking worried.

“Judith’s sick, huh?”

She knows. Of course she knows. She’d probably realized what Negan was doing before Rick had. Her eyes are gentle, sympathetic, and it makes his face burn and his throat thick. He shakes his head when she goes to speak- he can’t hear pitying words, even if they’re well-intended.

“Don’t,” he murmurs quietly, “please. It’s fine.”

Their eyes meet for the briefest moment before he has to look away again, long enough for the truth to pass between them. _It’s not fine._

She knows him well enough to not say it, though. She leaves him with a loving squeeze to his arm, and he piles himself into the cab he’d called back in the bathroom when he knew he couldn’t stay.

* * *

The house is empty when he gets home, devoid of the usual buzz of Judith’s Disney singalong cds or Carl shouting at his tv upstairs while he plays Overwatch. When he’d dropped them off at his brother’s for the weekend, he’d been looking forward to the time alone in the house. He could wake up late, idle in bed before making breakfast for one, maybe eating it on the porch.

He’d thought that maybe, since the kids were gone, he and Negan could-

But no.

He tries not to dwell on it, but it’s hard- not when he had to see it like that, shoved in his face like the man was trying to mock him with it.

Somehow he ends up with a glass of cheap whiskey in his hand. He rarely ever pulls it out anymore, and the bottle has a thin film of dust over it from being wedged into the back of the cabinet behind cans and a half-empty bottle of olive oil. It's gone just as fast as he pours it, and when he climbs the stairs to his bedroom, he takes the bottle with him. It sits open on the nightstand as he sandwiches himself beneath the cotton t-shirt sheets and lets the heavy ache in his chest tether him to the mattress.

Four years. It's been four years since Lori has laid beside him in this very bed, four years since he’s kissed someone with passion, with lust and intent for more to follow. Four years since he’s taken his clothes off with someone, since he’s felt any kind of real connection.

There have been others since Lori that have caught Rick's eye. Not many. A woman named Jessie who he had a passing crush on until she and her sons had moved to Michigan to be near her family. A man named Siddiq that Rick had met at a holiday party at Michonne and Andrea’s last winter. They’d shared an eggnog-flavored kiss beneath one of the many sprigs of mistletoe that Andrea had strung up, and Rick had smiled and blushed his way through it like a goddamned teenager. He’d only seen him once or twice since then, and they’d never brought up the kiss again. Siddiq was a busy man, working as a doctor up at Emory. He was just over thirty, and Rick could guess why he didn’t want to tie himself down to a man twelve years older than himself with two kids and more emotional baggage than Rick cared to contemplate.

That's always what it comes down to. It isn't like he’s never been hit on at a bar, but the people who pass him their number on beer-stained napkins or ask him if he wants come back to their place…they aren't looking for a guy like him. They see the wedding band still ringing his finger and tense up, and he can see all the interest leave their eyes when he explains that he's a widower with two kids.

And that's fine, he always tells himself. He just has to wait for someone who doesn't care about all those things. 

Negan, though- Negan knows all of that. He teaches Carl, coaches his team in the varsity baseball league. He’s met Judith on more than one occasion, always dubbing her _Little Angel_ and making goofy faces to draw bubbling laughter out of her.

Rick always pretends that seeing someone else bonding with his little girl like that doesn’t make him feel warm.

Carl- he's notoriously moody when it comes to most of his teachers. And he definitely started out wary of Negan- most people do. All of that changed when Negan picked him up for the school's varsity baseball team and told him he had some real potential. Negan even came over some weekends and spent the day in the backyard working on Carl's pitching. Rick would occasionally be roped into their practice sessions, and then Judith, never keen to be left out of the fun, would want to play, too. 

For her last birthday, Negan had gotten her a little tee-ball set in her current favorite color- lime green. He'd stayed late and taught her how to swing the bat while Rick had cleaned up paper plates and streamers from the party. 

So when Negan had leaned in, had kissed him, had breathed hot and heavy in his ear those three words that Rick hadn’t heard in so long- _I want you_ \- he’d thought that…

 _No_ , Rick thinks, and swallows another burning shot of whiskey before screwing the cap back on and collapsing back onto the pillow. _No, he doesn’t, and you should have known better._

* * *

Michonne’s on his doorstep the next morning, her radiance not dimmed by the early hour or the air of indignant fury surrounding her. If anything, this is when she thrives the most. 

“Can I come in?” she asks, like she hasn’t been his best friend for eight years and doesn’t walk in without knocking on a weekly basis. Rick’s about to step aside, but then she turns and sinks into the rocking chair on the front porch. Rick follows suit, leaning against the railing.

He looks like hell- he knows that much. The heady reek of whiskey permeates from him and he’s bed-rumpled from sleeping in past ten for the first time in god only knows how many years.

“He’s an ass,” Michonne says simply, the bite in her voice like wolves’ teeth. Not for the first time, Rick is thankful that she’s on his side so he doesn’t have to be the subject of her wrath. He can only imagine what it’s like to face her down in the courtroom.

Rick scrubs his bare foot across the woodgrain of the porch, brushing away dried leaves that have fluttered in from the oak in front of the house. “Yeah, well. I knew that goin’ in.” Because he did, and at this point, blaming Negan feels like a fruitless exercise. It’s not going to make him feel guilty, because he doesn’t care. “I should have known.”

That’s what it comes down to for Rick- he should have _known_.

“No,” Michonne snaps, eyes blazing, “ _he_ should have known. He did know, Rick. He knew better. He knows you. I don’t want you thinking this is on you.”

 _But isn’t it?_ Rick wants to say. _Isn’t it on me for expecting him to want anything more than a night, for thinking Negan, self-proclaimed professional bachelor, would want to overlook everything wrong with my life?_

He can’t say it out loud, of course. Even now, he’s too proud to just put all of his self-pity out there for other people to see. Instead, he ducks his head like he’s trying to keep the morning sun out of his eyes, says, “yeah,” and thanks Michonne for stopping by. He makes up some thinly veiled excuse to dodge further conversation- “Hungover,” he claims, though he’d only drank enough to lull him into a dreamless sleep.

She doesn’t believe him for a second, but she knows what he’s really asking for, so she goes anyway, lets him hole up for a day to lick his wounds.

* * *

Over the next week, Negan doesn’t call, doesn’t text, and that’s fine.

It’s fine. It’s what Rick expected. He busies himself with other things. He helps Glenn and Maggie paint their nursery a soothing, pale shade of green that is reflected in the expectant mother’s shining eyes. He takes Judith to playdates with Andre, talks to Michonne and Andrea about everything but the elephant in the room.

On Thursday after baseball practice, Rick meets Carl a little further away from the diamond than usual, and Carl gives him a strange looks but says nothing. The tires on the Grimes’ blue station wagon all but squeal as Rick peels out of the school parking lot.

* * *

It gets worse on Sunday.

It’s strange how similar the situations are, except it’s really not, and after it’s all said and done Rick can’t help but wonder how he didn’t see it coming.

It starts with a text from Simon- _just_ Simon, who Rick almost never hangs around with one-on-one because the guy is something of a sleaze. Most of the time when Simon is present, Rick spends the evening with one eye on him to make sure he doesn't get too handsy with Rosita or Tara or Aaron- a fear that is far from unfounded.

_Grilling out at my place tonight. BYOB. No cheap shit unless you want me to serve your ass a turkey burger._

He texts him back, asks him if Negan is going to be there and Simon promises the answer is no. Says it’s just him, Glenn, Jesus, and Arat, so when Rick shows up at seven p.m. sharp with a six pack of Coronas, he’s instantly worried when he sees that nobody else has arrived yet.

“Where is everyone?” he jokes nervously, practically chugging the margarita Simon shoves in his hand when he walks in the door. He’s never been to Simon’s before, but it’s somehow exactly what he’d expected- a framed Sports Illustrated poster adorning the wall in the den, clothes on the floor, half-full bags of vinegar kettle chips around the grease-stained sofa that looks like the man had hauled it off someone’s curb before the garbage truck could take it.

Simon shrugs dramatically, fiddling with the blender. The gray linoleum countertop is sticky with spilled tequila and lime margarita mix, the rim of Rick’s plastic Atlanta Braves cup dusted with a dense layer of table salt straight from the shaker. There are no burgers in sight. “Who fuckin’ knows, sheriff. That’s alright, though- you and me can have fun while we wait on ‘em, hm?”

Rick silently thinks that he would much rather be back home playing Pretty Pretty Princess with Judith, but keeps his mouth shut.

There’s a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence while Simon’s preparing his drink and Rick’s downing his so that he doesn’t feel like the discomfort is suffocating him. When Simon turns, he’s smirking around the rim of his cup, and it slides over Rick’s skin like warm, slimy summer rain.

“ _So_ ,” Simon starts, and a pit of dread opens up in Rick’s belly, “you and Negan, huh?”

“I, uh-” Rick swallows hard against a parched throat. “Yeah, I mean- it was just…just the one night.” If he thinks that getting out in front of it and saying it first will make him appear more cavalier, he’s failed miserably, because Simon’s wearing a look that’s half-amusement and half-pity.

“Shame,” Simon says in a breezy way that doesn’t sound sorry about it at all. He scoots a little closer to pat Rick heavily on the shoulder, and Rick has to mentally coerce himself to not scoot out of the taller man’s grasp. He goes to drain the rest of his cup only to find it empty. The last of his drink is drops of rain in the desert of his mouth. He moves to set the cup back on the counter and is relieved to feel the first waves of lightheadedness washing over him.

“It’s fine,” Rick answers tersely, wanting to move on from the subject entirely.

Too bad Simon can’t take a hint.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,” Simon drawls, and now there’s warmth against Rick’s arm- Simon’s pressed against his own, the smell of tequila and lime juice cloying between them. Long, thick fingers tuck an errant curl out of Rick’s face, linger on his cheekbone to stroke along the greying beard there. Rick’s breath stutters in shock, then stops entirely.

“Simon-”

“Shh, now, sheriff,” he croons low. He’s cupping Rick’s jaw now, and Rick feels locked in place sandwiched between Simon’s body and the fridge. The man’s dark eyes rake over him hungrily. “I heard you’re a real wildcat in bed.” Hot breath fogs over Rick’s neck and makes him tense and go rigid. “Why don’t you let me have a taste, huh? I promise I’ll do better by you than Negan did.”

Rick can’t manage to spit out the _fuck no_ on the tip of his tongue before Simon’s tongue is in his mouth trying to lick his protests away. He stiffens, shocked and panicked by this turn of events, his hands scrabbling at Simon’s shoulders to shove him back, but he only succeeds at making the man turn his attention to his neck, breathing hotly over his flushed skin and growling filth as he rolls his hips down into Rick’s.

“Heard you’re a screamer. That you moan for it like a fuckin’ twenty-dollar whore when you’ve got a dick in that tight little ass.” A sharp smack against said ass forces a yelp out of a startled Rick, and that seems to be enough to jar him back into reality. One moment, Simon’s on him, sucking on his neck like he’s trying to break the skin, and the next he’s stumbling back, wide-eyed and as shocked as Rick feels. Simon tumbles ass-first into the cabinets opposite the fridge- it’s barely three feet, but the murderous, affronted look on Rick’s face seems to be enough to keep the other man at bay.

Rick feels like he’s just run a marathon, out of breath and dazed, and he can’t make sense of the irritation on Simon’s face because _why the hell did Simon think it was okay to-_

“What the hell?” Simon snaps, gathering himself off the floor alongside his wounded pride. He practically slams down the rest of his drink, the empty cup skittering across the countertop. “What the fuck is the problem? Didn’t sound like Negan had any trouble getting you into bed. You got a thing for the biker look or somethin’?”

“You thought- just because I slept with _Negan_ that I’d-” it’s absolutely idiotic. Surely Simon can’t think that-

“That you’d put out for me, too? Yeah, I did. You wanna know why?” There’s a nasty curl to his lip that Rick doesn’t like, and he doesn’t give Rick the chance to answer. “Because the only reason Negan slept with you at all is because you’re desperate. What, did you really think ‘ol Neegs was gonna start playing stepdaddy with your kids and makin’ casseroles for you on Sunday nights just because he stuck his dick in you? C’mon now, Ricky. You know better than that. We both know Negan hasn’t been looking for anything but an easy lay. He was in a goddamned rut, and we all knew that you’d hop in bed with the first person that offered.”

It’s a slap across the face, and if Rick hadn’t been plastered against the fridge, he would have staggered back. “ _We_ \- you _all_ -”

“Yeah, you don’t hide it too well, deputy-do-right. Everyone knows you haven’t gotten any in, what, four years?” Simon sneers at him, but Rick can’t hold his gaze any longer. _Everyone- that’s what they think of me?_ “I’m the one that gave Negan the fuckin’ idea to screw you. Told him you were a sure thing- and I was right, wasn’t I?” Simon chuckled, apparently having regained some composure while knocking Rick down a few pegs. “Shee- _it_ , man. Guess I should’ve known you’d get your damn panties in a twist over that. That’s on me.” He looks Rick up and down again, contemplating. “So you’re definitely not down to hop on my dick tonight then, right?”

It takes every last scrap of dignity Rick has left to spit out an icy “no” and walk straight out of Simon’s grimy bachelor pad with his head upright.

As soon as he’s safely in his car, he crumples.

He’d thought it felt shitty to be Negan’s one night stand- he’d thought it felt shitty to get brushed off by the first person that had wanted to take him to bed since Lori had passed away. When he’d stood in the bathroom alone a week ago, having just seen Negan and some cute, young guy parade out of a stall together after hearing them fucking, he’d thought, _well, at least this is rock bottom for all of this._

He’d been wrong. It feels much, much shittier to be the one Negan slept with because all of the people he trusts and cares about think he’s desperate and easy.

_What, did you think ‘ol Neegs was gonna start playing stepdaddy with your kids and makin’ casseroles for you on Sunday nights just because he stuck his dick in you?_

Rick hadn’t been thinking that much ahead. It just felt nice to be wanted for once, to not be the one leaving the bar alone or dropping his drunk friends off with their partners. All he’d hoped was that maybe Negan saw something in him worth pursuing.

_C’mon now, Ricky. You know better than that._


	4. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to draw this fic out a little longer than I originally planned- probably just a chapter or so. I'm thinking seven chapters as an absolute maximum, but probably six? 
> 
> Also, I really wish I'd remembered this song last week, but if you want you can give [this sad shit](https://youtu.be/Dr-bQEMlN7M) a listen and think about poor Rick.

Negan’s on top of the goddamned world.

He’s gotten laid twice in the past week, and that’s done his bruised ego a world of good. For the first time since Lucille ended things, he’s feeling good about himself.

The only thing that’s threatening to rain on his parade is that small, nagging bit of guilt that’s wormed its way into the back of his mind and taken up residence there. He would call it his conscience, but as he keeps trying to tell himself, _he hasn’t done anything to feel guilty about._ The way he sees it, he did Rick a favor by choosing him to be his slump-breaker. They both got a few orgasms out of it- _good_ fucking orgasms, too, Negan might add- and Rick’s no worse off than he was before he’d slept with Negan. Hell, maybe if Rick would stop being such a little bitch about it, he could see Negan as his slump-breaker, too.

But no. Of course Rick has to go and make things difficult for both Negan and himself. Only Rick Grimes would take a damn good hookup and turn it into a bad thing.

_Michonne’s pissed at you, you know_ , Andrea texts him on Wednesday. Negan’s at home after work, already changed into sweats and has taken up residence on the couch to kick some ass at the latest Gears of War game. He’s been texting Andrea in between loading screens, and because life just won’t cut Negan a break, his tryst with Rick has to come up.

Negan shoots her a reply with half of a cookie dough Oreo hanging out his mouth- _Rick’s a big boy, he can handle himself. Not my fault he hasn’t dated since the eighties and has never heard of a fucking one night stand._ And then, because he’s an asshole: _And I mean it when I say he’s a BIG boy ;)_

He can practically hear Andrea gagging at that.

_I mean it, man. She’s ready to wring your neck. Be careful the next time you see her. And…gross._

Negan rolls his eyes. _Rick’s dick isn’t gross. Don’t let him find out you said that, he may tell Michonne on me._

Somewhere not-too-deep down, he knows he’s being an ass about all of this, but he’s not about to go begging forgiveness for living his own damn life. Michonne’s never been his biggest fan, anyway. Probably because she’s good friends with Lucille.

His phone vibrates again. Predictably, Andrea has called him out on being an ass.

_You’re an ass. It wouldn’t have killed you to let him down gently._

Negan pauses his game, annoyed. He and Andrea have a good rapport, and he’s used to her busting his balls a little, but right now it doesn’t feel like good-natured heckling and it’s getting under his skin.

_Maybe because you know she’s right_ , that little voice suggests, and he shoves it away.

_Look, I’m fucking busy. I’ve already got Michonne cold-shouldering my ass, I don’t need this shit from you, too. This is the same high school bullshit I have to deal with at work, I don’t need it when I’m off the clock. Tell your girlfriend I’m so fucking sorry Rick got his feelings hurt, but that he needs to grow a pair and get the fuck over it._

He hits send, and as soon as he sees the words blaring back at him on his screen, his stomach twists a little. He worries at his lip, waiting on a reply that doesn’t come.

He reads the reply again and again. _Grow a pair and get the fuck over it._ His mutinous brain recalls that Jesus told him something similar after Lucille had dumped him.

_Look, I’m your friend. We all are. And you don’t seem to understand how lucky you are that we haven’t turned you out on your ass over this. We liked Lucille. This is your mess, Negan. You did this to yourself, don’t act like you’re the victim here. Grow the hell up and move on._

After a couple minutes, he tosses his phone to the other side of the couch and unpauses his game, trying to ease his conscience. Out of sight, out of mind.

* * *

He thinks it’s a little late to be going over to Simon’s on a Sunday, but what the hell. He’s been promised beer and a Cornetto Trilogy marathon and Simon’s place is just down the road.

“Thought you had plans tonight,” Negan says as he flops down on the couch and kicks his feet up on the Ikea coffee table that had taken them both a full day to fully assemble back when Simon first got it. It’s looking a little worse for wear these days from people doing exactly what Negan’s doing now, and there’s navy blue duct tape holding one of the legs together.

“Yeah, well,” Simon grunts, sounding a little annoyed, “didn’t go like I thought.” He starts up Hot Fuzz and his feet join Negan’s on the rickety table.

Negan chuckles and swills his beer. Corona, his favorite, which he thinks is an odd choice since Simon usually goes right of the hard liquor. “Aw, you get stood up? Did you do that fuckin’ thing where you used an old pre-pornstache picture on Tinder and the sorry sonofabitch that showed up ran away screaming?”

“Fuck you, man,” Simon laughs good-naturedly. “That doesn’t happen, by the way. Everybody loves a man with a ‘stache, especially one as long and thick as mine.” Negan gags dramatically around the rim of his bottle. “I was actually tryin’ to follow your act.” He jabs his thumb at the half-empty beer box. “Grimes brought those over. I used your same formula and everything, had him think there were a bunch of people comin’ and it was just him and little ‘ol me.” Something shifts inside of Negan, his stomach lurching and flipping over on itself. “Guess he’s a fuck-once-every-four-years kinda guy, ‘cause he wouldn’t let me get it in. Got a little pissy about it, if we’re being frank. But you know all about that, don’t you?”

Simon’s admitting all of this so casually, like it’s not in the least bit strange for him to try to fuck the guy that Negan fucked two weeks ago. And maybe it isn’t, Negan tries to reason. It’s not like Negan had been _involved_ with Rick. He’d all but dumped him on his ass as soon as he could. Negan doesn’t care about Rick- not like that, so why does he feel all odd and clammy like Simon’s just told him he tried to fuck Lucille?

Well...maybe not quite like that. But it doesn’t feel great, and for the life of him he can’t figure out why, so he just stays quiet, frowning at the tv.

“What?” Simon asks, “Something I said?” He cranes his head to get a look at Negan’s expression and laughs. “Oh, I _know_ you’re not throwin’ a bitchfit about me tryin’ to get in Grimes’ pants. You practically kicked him out of bed with his pants down, Negan. You couldn’t have dropped him any faster if you tried-”

“And you couldn’t have tried to fucking _fuck_ him any faster if you’d tried,” Negan snaps in return, feeling his skin prickle. “Jesus, Simon, have some goddamned shame. You used my same moves, too? C’mon, that’s some weak-ass shit.”

“I just wanted to fuck somebody tonight, man,” Simon says with a roll of his eyes, “didn’t feel like goin’ to a bar and dropping money on drinks. Hell, I got Grimes to bring _me_ beer.”

_That_ rankles Negan more than a little- asshole couldn’t have less respect for Rick if he tried. “So what? You were just gonna use him to get off because you’re too fucking cheap and lazy to find someone the old-fashioned way? Treat him like a fuckin’ fleshlight to stick your dick into?” Negan scoffs with disgust and tries to quell the voice in his head that’s reminding him that _isn’t that exactly what you did?_

Of course Simon calls him on it.

“Ex- _cuse_ me, mister high-and-fuckin’-mighty, but isn’t that the exact same shit you did? You fucked him because he was right there and willing. I was just tryin’ to get in on that action before his legs closed for another four years. You said he was good in bed, and you were pretty clear that you didn’t give half a rat’s ass about him after, so what the fuck is the problem here?” And this is exactly what Negan’s been saying to Simon for the last two weeks whenever he’s talked about hooking up with Rick- _easy, desperate, good lay, tight ass, he’s a screamer, rides dick like a pro_ \- so why is it making his blood boil now? Why does the image of Simon’s skeevy hands sliding all over Rick make Negan want to clock the other man across the jaw?

“I wasn’t writing a fucking yelp review for you.” Negan sets his beer down and pushes off the couch. “I gotta go. I can’t keep doing this get-wasted-on-a-school-night shit. I’ll see you.”

He’s fully aware it’s a gutless move on his part, but Simon’s pissing him off and Sunday nights should be for sleeping, anyway.

He really doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to lie awake all night thinking about how far Simon got, thinking about Rick getting uncomfortable and having to squirm out of his grasp. Did Simon kiss him? Did he get that far? Negan’s willing to bet he did, he knows Simon well enough to know his moves, so he fully expects that Simon just dove right in, mouth first.

Where was it? Did Simon get him on the couch or was it up against the front door? Did he sneak a hand up Rick’s thigh, maybe give the goods a little squeeze? Pinch Rick’s ass, slide a hand in his back jeans pocket, or worse, beneath the waistband?

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t fucking _matter_ , because Negan’s not into Rick like that, as he’s made it abundantly clear these last two weeks. Sure, Rick’s a good looking guy. Muscular and solid, full pink lips, an ass that practically milked the orgasm out of Negan’s dick. He’s sweet, but has a bit of a mouth on him when he speaks up. He’s put Negan in his place on more than one occasion, and doesn’t that just rile him the fuck up?

_He’s kind_ , Negan’s brain provides. _He’s been kinder to you than you’ve ever deserved, and you dumped him of his ass because you were fucking scared that-_

No.

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

* * *

He does a stupid, stupid thing the next morning.

He texts Rick.

_Hey, you wanna come over tonight? I’ll buy my own fucking booze this time._

He does this right as he’s pulling out the driveway, in impulse text born of the persistent, nagging irritation he’s felt toward Simon since last night. He thinks, _maybe I do kinda like Rick after all. Maybe I should give him a second chance._

As if Rick’s the one who has something to gain by Negan texting him. As if Negan wasn’t the one who fucked up his first chance.

There are no new messages when he gets to the school and checks his phone again, but Negan figures maybe he’s just busy- he’s got a teenager and a four-year-old to get ready in the morning, after all. Can’t be easy to do on his own.

The thought makes Negan’s chest feel a little tight. He’s only been on his own for two months and it’s been driving him up the goddamn wall, and he doesn’t have to take care of anyone but himself. He can’t begin to fathom four years like that.

Throughout the day, Negan’s phone remains silent. He checks it between classes, on his lunch break, when he steps out during third period to take a piss. Nothing.

It’s kind of annoying. Is Rick really going to cold-shoulder him like this? For all he knew, Negan could have been asking him to hang out in a completely platonic way, not trying to get in his pants again.

He doesn’t try again until later, when he’s home and bored out of his gourd and flicking through the channels. _I figured we could give this another shot, you know? I didn’t really give you a chance before, but I’m ready to now._

The laugh track punctuating every other sentence of a _That 70’s Show_ rerun is more grating than usual, and Negan keeps switching channels. Five minutes of Raiders of the Lost Ark, ten of some show about extreme cake decorating, three of the fucking weather channel. Forecast for the next three days is overcast and humid. He lingers on a Hallmark channel movie for a few, but then there’s some scene with a soppy love confession mingled with apologies and a lingering kiss and all Negan can think about is how soft Rick’s lips were against his own. Plush and perfect.

He thinks he might miss them.

In between channel flips, he texts Rick.

_I’m not as big an asshole as I made it seem._

_I know you had a good time. I did, too. We can do it again, swear on my nutsack that I won’t be a dick afterword this time. We can go on a fucking date first, if you want. I know a great hibachi place._

Still nothing. Negan can’t help but think that Rick’s turning down a golden opportunity here, because clearly nobody else has offered to take him out on a date lately. It’s an asshole thing to think, but, hey- sometimes the truth’s a bitch. He’s not privy to every detail of Rick’s private life, but he knows enough from the rest of their friends that a lot of the reason Rick’s been single for so long is because he’s not great at meeting new people- too reserved- and lots of people see him as someone who requires immediate commitment. He’s got two kids, a nice house, he’s already retired, for god’s sake. He’s settled in a way that a lot of people don’t want. Hell, Negan knows that Jesus adores Rick, but even he didn’t want to run the risk of getting saddled with too much too fast. Rick’s life is a lot to take on.

Negan’s phone vibrates against the leather upholstery of his couch and he practically has a heart attack where he’s sitting. He grabs for it and reads the text, his excitement dissipating as soon as it had appeared.

It’s from Michonne, and it reads, _Quit texting him. He’s out with me and the kids and I can see what you’re sending. You need to stop._

_Mind your own fucking business_ , Negan sends back, and then, just to be petty, he texts Rick, too. _I bet you’re really fucking missing my big fat dick pounding your gorgeous ass._

Michonne knows how he operates. If she didn’t want him to be vulgar, she shouldn’t have told him she was reading Rick’s texts. Maybe that’ll teach her to mind her own damn business.

There are no more texts after that, but he doesn’t mind. At least he knows Rick’s reading them. He settles in for the evening with a meat lover’s pizza, a rum and coke or two, and a Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives marathon.

* * *

When there’s a knock on Negan’s door five episodes later, he’s ecstatic, thinking _, oh, boy, Rick decided to come over after all_. He’s practically got a boner just walking the three yards to the front door.

Said boner deflates like a balloon when he opens the door to see a rather pissed-looking Michonne standing on his doormat. Before he can speak, she’s stepped around him and inside, arms crossed over her chest as she regards him with contempt.

Negan smirks in a way that looks more self-assured than he feels. “You know, usually people ask to be invited in first. Common fucking courtesy or something. I could have had a gentleman caller.”

If anything, that seems to annoy her even more. “The mat said welcome,” she retorts. Well, she’s got him there.

Negan heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Are you seriously here to shout at me for texting Rick? Because this is turning into some serious high-school-glee-club bullshit that I’m way too fucking old for. This ain’t fucking William McKinley High.”

Any other time, he knows that Michonne would have razzed him to hell and back for watching Glee. As it is, she ignores the bait. Probably saving it for a later date.

“You’re the one pulling the bullshit, Negan. It was bad enough when you were treating Lucille like shit. We were all happy when she finally left you.” Negan recoils a little like Michonne has slapped him.

“How fucking dare you-”

“No!” she snaps, eyes flashing dangerously, “how fucking dare _you_. How fucking dare you do what you’ve been doing to Rick. How dare you be such a massive _child_ about this and then have the audacity to act like you’re the adult here.”

“How the fuck have _I_ been-”

“You’re fifty years old and you’ve been acting like you’re thirty years younger than you are. You hooked up with someone where you knew Rick would see you because didn’t have the balls to say you didn’t want to see him again. I’ve heard the way you’ve been talking about him- like you’re a goddamn teenager trying to impress his friends because some cute girl gave you a handjob. Rick’s supposed to be your friend- you all but told Simon he was, what? Good to go?” She shakes her head in disgust. “And now you’re doing this shit. Acting like you can do it all over again. Do you really think that will work?”

Negan doesn’t like feeling backed into a corner like this. “Yeah,” he snaps, “I figured it was worth a shot.”

“You hurt him,” Michonne says simply, and he doesn’t like that, either. Doesn’t like that it makes a stone of guilt sink in his stomach. “You know that, right? It’s taken him so long to be open to dating again after Lori. I know you weren’t around when that happened, but use a little human empathy and try to _imagine_ what that must have been like for him. You and Lucille were together for four years, and for the last two months you’ve been moping about her dumping you because you _cheated on her_. Rick and Lori were together for five times that long. They had kids together. He _adored_ her.”

Negan tries to imagine a world where he’d only ever been with Lucille. Where he’d been faithful, where they’d had kids, gotten married, bought a house together. All the things that they’d talked about in the abstract but Negan never wanted to commit to because it meant that he was locked in and settled. _Old_.

“He’s been raising two kids on his own for four years while he’s been grieving, and those kids are his whole world. You know that he’s so worried he’ll never find anyone else because they won’t want to be a part of his family, or the kids won’t like them, or they won’t want a man who’s been widowed already.”

Rick’s kids like Negan, and he’s pretty fond of them, too. Judith loves having him over because he’ll read to her in silly monster voices and Carl likes getting extra tips from his baseball coach so that he can show up Ron Anderson at practice.

“You used him,” Michonne accuses, and damn if she hasn’t hit the nail on the head. “You used him because you knew he was vulnerable, and you took advantage of that so you could get laid and keep pretending you don’t care that you fucked up the best relationship you ever had. And then you ditched him because you’re so fucking scared of being an old man who’s settled down, of being someone who gives a shit. Keep pretending you’re happy here, Negan. Keep acting like this is your ideal life, holed up in this tiny apartment by yourself watching Glee and trying to pretend your glory days aren’t behind you.”

He _knew_ she wasn’t going to just drop the Glee thing.

Michonne turns to leave, having said her peace. She pauses halfway out the door. “If you’re going to text him, you should at least apologize.”

Negan glares at her retreating back. “I did fucking apologize!” The door slams behind her.

Fuming, he drops back onto the couch _. I’m not stuck trying to relieve my goddamn glory days. These are my glory days. I’m just getting fucking started._ He glances around his apartment- yeah, sure, it’s not the biggest, but he doesn’t need a lot of space. One of the perks of being a bachelor with no kids, and it saves him money. He’s living on a goddamned teacher’s salary for fuck’s sake. And he’s not _alone_ , he’s got friends. Sure, most of them are pissed at him right now, but they’ll come around.

_And I did fucking apologize. I know I did._

He snatches his phone up and opens the one-sided conversation between himself and Rick, ready to screenshot his apology and send it to Michonne as proof. He scrolls up.

_…Goddammit_.

He really hates being wrong.

And somehow, even more than he is embarrassed that he’d insisted that he was right when he wasn’t, he feels ashamed. Michonne’s words replay in his head as he rereads the texts over and over, testaments to his own sleazy behavior. They aren’t an apology- they read like a booty call.

_You hurt him. You used him. You took advantage of him._

Negan squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose and then scrubs a hand across his beard. He feels like he’s drowning in guilt, like he’s the lowest, most worthless piece of shit to ever walk the planet and nothing could ever redeem him.

He’s well-acquainted with this feeling- it’s how he felt whenever he’d call up the woman he’d been sleeping around on Lucille with. It’s how he felt after they were done and he was sitting alone on the bed of some dirt-cheap motel room that smelled like stale cigarette smoke and sweat. It’s how he felt when Lucille finally caught him after three months and she had sobbed, her shoulders shaking, at the kitchen table they used to eat breakfast together at every morning before work. It’s how he felt when she said that she was done, and he’d come home that afternoon to find all of her belongings gone, packed away in her bright sea-green suitcases that she’d bought on sale because she said they’d never have trouble spotting their luggage at the airport again, pale green against a sea of black.

The thought burns in his mind, and he tries to drown it out like he usually does when he thinks back on Lucille, but this time it doesn’t feel like there’s anywhere to hide. He’s fresh out of booze in an empty apartment that feels like a mausoleum to his misery, and the only refuge he can see is sleep. He rifles through his medicine cabinet and pops a Benadryl, and within a half hour, he’s out like a light.

* * *

Negan’s at the Atlanta airport.

He remembers this- it was years ago, the first trip he and Lucille took together. It was around the holidays, and the luggage terminal is crawling with people in every direction, an insect-like creepiness to them that’s mimicked in the giant ant sculptures crawling along the far side of the terminal.

Negan always thought those ants were fucking creepy.

People keep jostling him, but it looks like the same man over and over like a photocopy, black hat and coat, never apologizing. He needs to find their luggage- Lucille went to get the car, and he needs to find their damn luggage, and-

There they are, pale green like the shallows of the ocean, and if Negan had ever doubted Lucille’s choice of color, he’s thankful for it among the waves of black he’s drenched in.

He runs for them- or _tries_ , because it feels like his legs are tethered to cinderblocks and that damn black coat guy keeps bumping him and blocking his view, the splotches of green bobbing in and out of sight.

The ants are on the wall in front of him now, encroaching, and they make his skin crawl. Hasn’t he read somewhere that there were ants in the Amazon that swarmed and devoured human beings? Or maybe that was in a movie.

_Need to get our fucking luggage_ , he thinks.

Except when he finally reaches the baggage carousel, the color’s all wrong, the green now a light blue that Negan recognizes too well-

And then he’s back in that bathroom stall at the bar, buried to the hilt in tight, slick warmth, except he’s looking into eyes of that same shade of blue instead of the back of Ryan’s head, and he’s not being kind about it. He’s got Rick’s thighs hitched up around his waist and he’s calling him horrible things just to make Rick look away because he can’t stand to look him in the eye. It doesn’t work, though, and he sees tears well up in those baby blues instead.

All he can think is _no, no, I don’t want to make him cry-_

And then he’s awake, heart racing and sweat sticking his skin to the bedsheets. When he rolls over, he can see the red glare of the clock beside his bed- 2:46 am.

All he can think now is _I have to tell him I’m fucking sorry._

He snatches up his phone off the nightstand, fingers hovering over the keypad, hesitant. _Do it. Do it, you asshole. Tell him you’re fucking sorry._

He can’t. For once, though, it’s not because he’s being a coward- it’s because he knows that apologizing to Rick over text at almost 3 in the morning is selfish, just a sorry attempt at clearing his own conscience so he can get some peace of mind. Instead, he leaves Rick alone for the evening, marinating in guilt and regret alone while he tries to get back to sleep.

Visions of Rick haunt him as he tosses and turns, but they’re not the ones Negan usually draws on at night. Instead of picturing him naked and spread out on the bed or down on his knees or hovering above Negan with that determined _I’m-gonna-make-you-come_ look in his eyes, Negan remembers all of the little instances of kindness Rick has shown him in the years since they’d become friends.

There was the time Rick had bargained with one of the sheriff’s deputies to let Negan off with a warning instead of throwing him in the drunk tank for the night after he’d gotten too rowdy at a bar. The time Negan had tried to get between some abusive asshole and his girlfriend and had taken a bottle to the face for it, and Rick had cleaned him up and bandaged the cut on his cheek. There had been blood everywhere- down Negan’s shirt, over Rick’s hands and clean countertop.

_Damn, it had to have been my face, huh?_ Negan had joked. _Who’s gonna love my fucked-up mug now?_

_Don’t worry_ , Rick had teased in return, _your mug doesn’t look any more fucked up than it did before. And it’s a good story. You’ll be fine._

He thinks of the first season he’d had Carl on his baseball team. He was junior varsity then, just a freshman, and his pitching left a lot to be desired, so he’d offered to give the kid some pointers. That turned into him spending one evening a week in the Grimes’ backyard. Rick would make them lemonade and order a couple pizzas. Negan always loved sipping lemonade on the back porch with Rick and the kids, watching the sky turn to twilight.

He thinks of Rick rubbing his back and telling him he was going to be alright on nights when he drank until he was sick. He thinks of Rick helping him come up with anniversary gifts for Lucille, of him telling Negan that the breakup was a chance for him to do better for someone else.

He definitely hasn’t done that.

There’s a lot of little things about Rick- about all of his friends, but especially Rick- that Negan’s taken for granted over the years.

_He deserves more than a goddamn text._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dumb note if you care- there did indeed used to be ant sculptures in the ATL airport near the baggage claim and they always fascinated me as a kid.


	5. Honest

“You didn’t need to- Michonne, I really wish you hadn’t-”

“Someone needed to say something to him, Rick.” Michonne’s face is gentle, kind, but resolute and unwavering in her conviction. Rick busies himself by stirring another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. She likes hers sweet, no cream. “You fight so hard for everyone else,” she says, and he startles, meeting her eyes. “You think we don’t notice. And I know you’re not _asking_ for anyone to notice. But you do so much for the people you love. I can’t count how many times you’ve watched Andre so Andrea and I could have a night out. Because of you, Maggie and Glenn have enough baby know-how to last them up to little Hershel’s teenage years. You’re the one who hooked Tara up with her job at the station, who gave Rosita a place to stay when Abraham dumped her, who drives us all home every night because you don’t want anyone driving drunk. You’re the one who talked Negan into leaving the house for the first time in two weeks after Lucille dumped him.”

That last one is pointed, and Rick feels it, right to the core. He remembers it of course, how Simon and Arat couldn’t get him to get off the couch, to change out of his cheeto-stained sweatpants and eat anything other than takeout wings and Ben and Jerry’s. Rick had been fully supportive of Lucille’s decision to dump Negan, but even so, knowing the man was lying on the couch blubbering into empty ice cream cartons and watching Bonnie and Clyde because it was “their movie”…he’d felt sympathy for him for perhaps the first time ever.

So he’d gone to his house, let himself in with the key under the bulldog statue on the porch, and given Negan a pep talk that resulted in him getting his sorrow-laden ass off the couch and into the shower. He’d reeked of B.O. and buffalo sauce and booze, and Rick had made him a fried egg on toast- one of the few things he knew how to make without starting a small kitchen fire- and it had worked.

“Did he ever thank you for it?” Michonne asks, pulling him back out of the memory. 

Rick dunks half of his strawberry-frosted donut into his coffee, letting the dark liquid seep into the pastry. “He didn’t have to.” That’s never the reason he did things for people he loved. He hardly knew what to do with praise when he got it.

“He should have,” Michonne said. She’d chugged her coffee like it was the only thing keeping the blood pumping through her veins. She tapped the screen of her phone and a photo of Andrea and Andre cheesing for the camera popped up along with the time- 8:48. “I’ve got to get to work. I just wanted to drop by and let you know.” She gathered herself up and strode toward the door, parting with a kiss to Rick’s cheek. “Don’t let him treat you like shit, Rick. You’re worth more than that.”

* * *

When Rick was a kid and he would visit his grandparents, he’d thought that retirement sounded like the best thing in the world- it was a permanent summer vacation for grownups! They would tend to their garden and walk their dogs and go on trips to the beach in the middle of September.

Now, Rick knows the truth- retirement is mind-numbingly dull when you’re spending it alone just waiting to pick kids up from school and make dinner. He supposes that this isn’t a true retirement, that will come when Carl and Judith are grown and moved out.

That sounds even worse to him.

When Lori was alive, they’d sometimes joke about what they’d do when they were old and grey. Rick suggested they take cooking classes, Lori said they could sell the house and get a cabin in the mountains. It sounded good, then. A hammock out back, azaleas blooming along the front walkway, daily strolls down to a creek to listen to the babble of the river. Maybe they'd adopt a couple more dogs.

Now all of that seems empty and bleak, like Rick will just be counting the days until his children come home to visit him so he’s not holed up in the empty house all alone.

 _Christ_ , he thinks to himself as he finishes up the last of the dishes, _when did I get so morbid?_ _That’s what friends are for. People don’t just stop having friends when they hit sixty._

He glances out into the backyard- it’s a nice size, big enough for Carl to practice pitching and for a treehouse that Judith had adopted when Carl had outgrown it. Rick had built it himself years ago because he’d had one of his own as a kid and loved it. He’d outgrown it in middle school and come back around when he was a teenager and he and his best friend Shane realized they could discreetly smoke pot up there without being caught by Rick’s parents.

 _Come to think of it_ , Rick muses, _if Carl’s anything like I was as a teenager, he may not be done with that treehouse after all._

The thought should probably bother him, but if Rick’s honest with himself, there’s much worse mischief Carl could be getting up to than smoking cheap joints in his own backyard. 

 _I could start up a garden out there_ , Rick thinks. _Give myself something to do during the day._

A knock on the front door interrupts his planning. _Michonne? Maybe she forgot something-_

Rick’s floored when he answers the door and standing there, looking haphazard and nervous and slightly sweaty, is Negan. His inky-black hair is in a disarray, some of the longer strands sticking to his forehead in a way that makes him seem more endearing than Rick knows him to be. Rick gives him a quick once-over, cocking an eyebrow when he sees that the man is still in what Rick can only assume to be his gym-coach clothes: sleek black athletic shorts and a red polo. Maybe it’s just the summer heat, but Negan looks like he’s run a marathon.

“Rick,” he says simply, starting and stopping like a skipping record, unsure.

“Aren’t you supposed to be teachin’ today?” Rick questions. Normally, he’d be a little more tactful- he’s well aware that he’s coming off a bit accusatory, but it’s better than Negan deserves.

Negan’s eyes- rich, caramelly hazel that Rick hates because he remembers how they look when Negan comes- flick down and take in his appearance like he’s only just realized what he’s wearing. “Oh. Yeah, that. I’m not fucking- I’m not ditching, I swear.” The way he says it makes it so easy to picture a young Negan getting caught skipping school and reciting the same line, and it almost makes Rick want to crack a smile. He reins it in. “Instead of gym, they’re having this fuckin’ schoolwide impromptu health class initiative thing.” He makes air quotes around _health class initiative_ , complete with an eye roll. It’s obvious he works with teenagers. “It’s because they found condoms in one of the boys’ bathrooms and now they’re trying to cover their asses before the parents and school board throw a shitfit. Fucking abstinence-only education.”

Rick’s teeth sink into his lower lip. “So naturally, you thought, _I should go pay Rick a visit_?”

“Yes,” Negan says, and then balks, backtracking, “I mean no! No, not because of the- the fucking condoms. We didn’t even use- when we- I mean…fuck.” He shuffles his feet sheepishly- _sheepish! Negan!_ \- and runs a hand through his hair, pushing long strands out of his face. They’re beginning to wave a little, not quite curl, but close.

“Why are you here?” Rick figures he may as well cut to the chase. Negan straightens up, looks him in the eye with an intense sincerity that is almost alarming.

“To apologize to you. For- shit, for everything. Where do I even fucking start? I’m sorry, Rick. Jesus, I’m so fucking _sorry_.” Rick doesn’t trust him- not now, not anymore, not even when he sounds like he truly means it. “For- for using you.” Negan’s eyes flutter closed, and Rick’s surprised to see that he actually looks guilt-ridden. “I never should have done that shit. Never should have slept with you, not when I know, I fucking _knew_ that it meant something different to you than it did to me.” He swallows hard. “You’ve been- after Lucille, you were the one who tried to really help. Not just get me back into a bar so I could drink my fuckin’ sorrows away in public, but really tried to _help_. And I wasn’t thinking about you. About how you’d feel because of…Lori.”

His voice drops a little on her name, unsure if saying it aloud will shatter Rick into a thousand little shards in the entryway. It’s not necessary, but Rick appreciates it. It’s the most thoughtful thing Negan’s ever done for him.

“And then after, what I did- with that fucking guy. Trying to hurt you because I was too much of a goddamned _coward_ to break things off on my own. The shit I said about you- fuck, Rick. I’m so sorry. I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m a piece of shit- I know that, and it’s not an excuse. I knew it with Lucille, and I hated myself for it, and I know it now. I thought, you know, after her, that I’d- that I’d be better.” He chuckles in a hollow, self-depreciating way. “I guess not. But you deserve an apology.”

Rick blinks hard- it’s a lot to process, especially considering that getting genuine apologies out of Negan is usually like pulling teeth. But now he’s standing here, not even asking to come inside, looking at Rick with an openness that’s never been there before. “Thank you,” he says quietly, even though he _knows_ it’s insane for him to thank someone for having the basic human decency to apologize to him.

“You don’t have anything to thank me for, Rick,” Negan tells him gently. There’s a sad smile on his face, almost wistful, and it throws Rick for a loop. “I just…I fuckin’ wish I hadn’t treated you like I did. Hadn’t said what I said.”

“Why’d you say it?” Rick has to know- has to, because Negan’s words have been weighing on him, eating away at the little bit of self-esteem he has left after this whole ordeal. “I get why you slept with me. Why you ditched me after.” Negan winces. “But what you said- to Simon, to the others. Is that really what you think of me? What everyone thinks, that I’m desperate? Am I really that-” _pathetic_ , he almost says, but he bites the word back just in time.

Even after he’s been publicly been taken down a few pegs, there are a few last vestiges of pride left in him.

Negan’s face crumbles, and for the first time he takes a stuttering step toward Rick- not touching him, just drawing nearer so that Rick can see the regret in his eyes and the deep furrows etched between his dark brows. “No, no- fuck, _no_ , Rick. That’s not- it’s not like that. It isn’t. I slept with you because _I_ was desperate- shit, that still sounds bad, fuck- what I mean is that I knew that you hadn’t slept with anyone in a while.” It goes unspoken between them- _since Lori died_. “I just needed to fuck someone to feel better- because if I’m not with someone, I’m thinking about Lucille.”

And there it is, the truth of the matter. The thing Rick knew the moment Negan started refusing to say Lucille’s name and started hooking up with people whenever he could like he hadn’t just been crying over her a week ago. Negan says it like it hasn't been obvious to him and everyone else for the last two months. Maybe he really thinks he's been hiding it. 

“You weren’t desperate- you were vulnerable,” Negan says, and it stings to hear, but he’s not wrong. “It’s hard, being on your own. Fuck, I’ve been on my own for two months and this shit sucks. I’ve been doing everything I can to pretend like I don’t hate myself for fucking up the best goddamned thing in my life. You’ve been flyin’ solo for four years, and I knew that. I knew that, and I took advantage of it. And I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t sleep with you just because you offered.” Rick feels like he needs to clear the air on this. He doesn't like Negan thinking that he's so lonely and unwanted that he's willing to jump at any given person willing to fall into bed with him. “It’s not like nobody else has offered in the last four years. Most people just don’t want to tie themselves to someone like me, you know? Retired, two kids, widower. Interest wanes the more they get to know me. I- I get that. I know it’s a lot.” He feels hard to love. There are a lot of drawbacks to caring about him, he thinks. “But you already knew all of that, so I thought that maybe-” he breaks off, embarrassed by the almost-admission.

Negan’s eyes are soft, apologetic. “Rick,” he murmurs, “I’m so fucking sorry, I-”

Rick cuts him off with a curt shake of his head. “Don’t. It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_. I fucking hurt you, I treated you like shit and made you think-” Negan shakes his head with disgust. “I’m not worth feelin’ shitty over, Rick. I’m sure you know that, but I’m just giving you a reminder: I’m not. If I could take it back, go back to that stupid night in that bar and un-fuck that guy, I would.”

That comes as a surprise to Rick. “You wouldn’t un-fuck me?” It’s a thin attempt at humor, but it gets a tiny chuckle out of Negan all the same.

“Nah, Rick. If I could go back…fuck, I’d do it all differently, do it _right_. Make it so that you and I had a shot together.”

It’s an admission that seems to stun them both, and Negan looks half-embarrassed by his slip up and half-resigned. Rick’s eyebrows are nearly at his hairline. “You’re joking.” He genuinely wants to reach out and smack him now. After everything, this just seems cruel, like Negan's taunting him with what could have been. 

Negan’s face crumples. “I’m not.”

“That’s not how you were actin’ two weeks ago.”

Negan looks sheepish. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the last two weeks. More than I’ve wanted to. Thinking about that kind of person I want to be. Thinking about you.”

Rick grits his teeth. “Glad that you decided I was worth thinkin’ about after Michonne put you in your place. That’s awful generous of you.”

“Rick, it’s not fucking like-”

“It _is_ fucking like that, Negan. Christ, you never learn, do you?” All the hurt Negan’s caused him the past two weeks feels like it’s bubbling over, and he can't keep the anger and hurt and frustration behind his teeth anymore. “Always wantin’ what you can’t have. You were the same way with Lucille. She was _good_ to you. Better than you deserved even before you started screwin’ around on her. And even then, she wasn’t enough for you. Anyone who glanced your way, you had to have them. Just to know what it’s like. You’re the kid who wants to play with every toy, but god forbid someone else has what you want.”

“Rick, I-” Negan’s gaze drops to his shoes. “Let me show you. Please, let me fucking show you how much I regret it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that you regret it,” Rick says. “I just know you only regret it because you changed your mind about me.”

“I don’t,” Negan pleads. “I don’t, Rick. I regret it because I fucking hurt you. I was a selfish bastard and you didn’t deserve it, and I’m sorry.” He takes a breath, steps away to give Rick his space, even though he seems reluctant. It’s something. “I didn’t come her to try to win you over. I guess I made it seem like that, didn’t I? Shit. Look, I came here to apologize to you. No fuckin’ agenda.”

Rick knows he looks as skeptical as he feels.

“I know you’ve got no reason to trust me.”

“Glad we understand each other.”

Negan sighs. “You’re a good man, Rick. You’ve always been a good friend to me. To everyone. You don’t have to forgive me. I mean- fucking obviously you don’t have to do anything. But if you’re willing, I’d, uh. I’d like to try to make things up to you.”

Rick’s eyes narrow. “What happened to _no agenda_?”

“There still isn’t one. I’m coming to you as a guy who’s finally had to take a long, hard look at his life the last two weeks, and hasn’t liked what he’s seen. I’m telling you up front, because I’m trying the whole honesty-and-communication thing: I like you a lot. You’re kind and tough as hell and fuckin’ sexy.” The words make Rick’s face grow warm. _Empty flattery_. He hates that it makes him react the same way it had when he and Negan had slept together. “But that’s not why I want to make things up to you. I’m gonna want to make things right whether you tell me right now that nothing’s ever gonna happen between us again.” Sheepishly, Negan rubs a hand over his face. The stubble there is longer than it’s been or a while. Rick remembers the post-breakup beard he’d amassed and almost smiles. “I just want to be your friend. I think I need to know what it means to be a halfway decent person, and you’re the best person I know.”

Rick thinks of everything that preceded their hookup- the days Negan had spent at his house hanging out and entertaining his kids. Those were the times he remembered there was more to Negan than the devil-may-care bravado he put on.

He liked that man. But-

“I can’t trust you.”

Negan smiles, and for once the charm there is sincere. “I want to fix that.”

“It’ll take time,” Rick warns. “I don’t know how long. Don’t even know if I can. If I’ll want to.” He doesn’t want Negan accusing him of leading him on. “I’m saying yes to tryin’ to be friends. Nothing else.”

“I don’t care,” Negan whispers, leaning in closer and leaving Rick awash in a cloud of the spicy cologne he wears. That same scent had clung to his skin after they’d fucked, and a shiver runs down his spine. “I like you, Rick. I _care_ about you. You’re a good man- I’ve know that as long as I’ve known you. You’re a giver. I want to try to give you something back.”

Rick narrows his eyes skeptically. “Like what?”

“Let me make you and the rugrats dinner. Anything you want. Let me take care of you.”

He seems sincere, but-

“You just want to have sex again,” Rick accuses.

“I don’t. I mean, let’s be honest here, I would like to fuck you again, Rick, because you? Are an in-fucking- _credible_ lay.” Negan licks his lips, and Rick feels his face grow hot. “But that’s not the point of this. Of any of it. I want to be half the friend to you that you are to me and everyone else. You deserve to be taken care of, Rick.” That sets off something warm in Rick’s chest. How long has it been since someone’s talked to him like that? “Like I said: I care about you. I want to show you that, even if you never want to fuck again. I’d be honored just to be the guy cooking you supper. What do you say?”

Part of him wants to say yes so badly that he aches.

“No,” is what he says. Maybe he’s being stupid, oversensitive, but deep down, he knows it’s the right call for now. “I need some time. “

He’s impressed that Negan’s able to let it go. That he simply nods, smiles a little sadly, apologizes again and goes on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im impressed i managed to get off-schedule with a fic that's mostly prewritten. i also keep getting ideas for how to draw this fic out so i really need to sit down and figure out how long it's going to end up being, but i'll probably just fly by the seat of my pants with this one.


	6. Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up for some tag additions and incoming jadis. also super sorry that this no longer has a schedule lmao the fact that i didn't plan on extending this fic has come to a head.

Things get dicey at the monthly Parent-Teacher Association meeting, which Negan wishes he could say was an unheard of occurrence, but it’s not. There’s always _something_ , whether it’s spats over who’s been parking in the faculty-reserved spaces or whether teachers have the right to confiscate students' cell phones for a full day or who was supposed to bring cookies to the meeting. Negan’s a little proud to say that he’s often a subject of discussion at these meetings, since he’s had more than a handful of angry parents complaining about _vulgar language_ or some such shit. One time a helicopter dad had gotten his crisply pleated khakis in a twist because Negan had dared to say _hell_ in front of his precious sixteen year old son at baseball practice. 

He usually finds these meetings hilarious, and he often counts himself lucky to know Rick, who’s involved in the PTA to a degree that only a truly bored retiree could be. Once Rick had gotten over his own aversion to Negan’s language, they found themselves on the same side more often than not, trying to sate the irate masses of parents worried about SAT prep and teen pregnancy and the gluten content of school lunches.

Today however, the art teacher has made a rare appearance because a parent complained about there being nude sculptures in the book she assigned. Normally Negan would have gotten a kick out of somebody getting red-in-the-face furious over their kid seeing a five-by-two inch photo of _David_ in a textbook that they probably didn’t even read- and he probably would have piped in by pointing out that _if you think that's the worst thing your kid has seen, you're fucking kidding yourself_ \- but he can’t help but notice how the art teacher’s gaze keeps falling to Rick, who’s sitting beside her in solidarity and looking like he’s about to start beating his head against the cafeteria table if he has to hear the phrase _obscene and lewd imagery_ one more time.

The art teacher goes by Jadis, which Negan recently discovered is her middle name that she prefers to the much more dull _Anne_ she was christened with. Not that Negan can say anything about weird names. She’s quirky, with oddly dyed hair and a penchant for cats that Negan thinks is probably better suited for someone thirty years older than her, but she has an air of knowing about her that people seem to respect.

Negan’s sitting at the end of the table, purposely trying to give Rick his space even though he wants to be the one whose leg is so close to Rick’s beneath the table that their knees knock and thighs press together.

It’s a small table, he reasons. If the guy seated beside him wasn’t a huge homophobic bag of dicks that tried to get Negan fired when it came out that he swung both ways, their legs would probably be touching, too. As it is, he’s practically sitting on the edge of his seat and leaning away like Negan’s got cooties. Maybe if the school taught something other than abstinence-only fearmongering he would know that you can’t actually _catch_ homosexuality.

Negan’s thinking now that maybe he should have just grown a pair and sat next to Rick, because Jadis is being _far_ too friendly for his liking. Come the fuck on- Rick’s hot and all, but she doesn’t need to be looking at him like _that_.

It only gets worse after the meeting, when Negan makes his escape and tries to weave through the throng of parents to get to Rick, only to see him caught up in conversation with Jadis over a couple plastic cups of lemonade. Jadis is going on and on, talking more than Negan has ever heard her speak, and Rick’s listening and nodding and laughing like she’s the most fascinating person on earth. What could she possibly be saying to keep his attention like that? Rick’s not into art. Is he? Maybe-

“Hey, move out of the way, man, you’re blocking the cookies.” Negan blinks down at the guy shoving his way toward the snack table, and in the moment that his eyes aren’t on Rick, Jadis must have said something, because when Negan looks back over at them Rick’s cheeks are pink and her hand is on his arm and there’s a curling, catlike smile on her face that makes Negan want to scream.

He waits for Rick to shake his head a back away, because whatever she said to him was clearly rather lewd or flirtatious- he’s never known Rick to blush like that over anything else. And surely Rick isn't into her like _that_. 

His heart drops into his stomach when he sees Rick chuckle shyly, rub a hand over the back of his neck, and nod at whatever she’s asked. He sees him hand over his phone, watches thought a jealous green haze as Jadis taps her number into Rick's phone.

He can’t make himself move, just watches as Jadis slips out the door with a wink in Rick’s direction.

* * *

_“You are beautiful enough to sculpt.”_

Jadis’s bold flirtation is still ringing in Rick’s ears the next day as his fingers hover over the send button on his phone screen.

_“You should pose for me sometime. I’ll make it worth your while.”_

Rick isn’t one to assume things, especially in situations like this, but the insinuation in her words had left very little room for doubt about what she meant. He also isn’t usually one to go to someone’s home for a first date- if that’s what this is- because he knows that that means and that's never how he played the game. He thinks that maybe being with Negan just that one night made him remember the side of himself that’s not looking for a lifelong partner- that it’s okay to just want something for himself every now and again. And Jadis- she’s strange in an intriguing way, intelligent and foreward and, yes, beautiful. And he finds himself wanting to say yes.

As he sits on his couch, contemplating texting her, he thinks about how he’s only ever slept with two people and how he was never interested in casual relationships, always wanting to settle down right away, and he thinks that maybe he could stand to let himself live just a little bit. After all, it's not like his front steps are crowded with admirers. 

Emboldened, he hits send.

_How about tonight?_

* * *

Jadis’s house is a tiny little two-bedroom cottage on the fringes of town, her front yard decorated with metal sculptures of animals- a cat, a rooster, a beaver. As Rick strolls up the stone pathway to her door, he wonders if the choice of animals was a purposeful innuendo. Knowing Jadis, he thinks the answer is probably yes.

He front porch is spattered with a rainbow of paint, some of it flecking the siding and front door as well. 

When she answers, her eyes are bright and her smile is sincere and playful. “Welcome to the studio.”

And that’s exactly what it is- everything from the kitchen to the back porch is a part of her artwork. There’s sculptures on shelves and in corners of rooms, paintings mounted on walls, tarps laid out sporadically here and there to catch drips. The kitchen cabinets are a sprawling mural of blue and green that stand out amid the industrial steel of the appliances.

Everything seems to spill forth from a room that faces the backyard, and that’s where she leads him once they’ve both got a glass of wine in hand. He likes that she doesn’t apologize for the mess- it’s her home, and she lives the way she likes. “It all used to be contained here, and then it spiraled, the way these things do.” She gestures around the room, which is decidedly messier than the others. Tarps are permanently affixed to the floor over the hardwood, and though it was meant to be a second bedroom, the only furniture in sight is a sketchbook-cluttered desk facing the window and a couple of haphazard chairs. Canvases and paint are sorted with surprising neatness against the walls and on bookshelves that house very few books. The room is chaos, and Rick finds that he quite likes it.

“You’re going to pose for me?” she asks, her mouth quirked into a smile. Rick shuffles his feet awkwardly, but nods with conviction.

“Wasn’t sure how serious you were about that.” He shurgs, grinning. “I’m thinkin’ you really meant it now, though.”

Jadis strides across the room and fingers over a camera perched on the desk. “Only if you want.”

Rick surprises himself by wanting to, despite the flush coloring his cheeks and neck when Jadis circles him, looking her fill. She comes to a stop in front of him, one slender finger caught on the top button of his shirt.

“Can I?”

He huffs out a laugh, embarrassed and pleased all at once. “Just how much do you want me to take off?”

Her smile widens. “However much you want.”

Rick opts just to shed his shirt, lets her take a few photos because the actual sculpting process will take days. For the time being, she opts to simply sketch him, promising that he'll be the first to see the sculpture when she finishes. He settles into one of the comfier chairs and they chat as she works- about her job, about his retirement, about her art and his newly crafted garden that’s slowly encompassing his backyard.

It’s about an hour later that she’s done. Perched on the arm of his chair, Jadis watches as Rick looks through her sketches. There’s three spread over as many pages, one in pencil and two with splashes of ink and watercolor- blue for his eyes, pink coloring his face and chest.

“Do I really blush that much?” he jokes, and she chuckles.

“You’re not used to being admired,” she says simply.

They’re _good_ \- she definitely managed to capture him. The attention to detail makes him squirm, both in delight and self-consciousness. She noticed every little thing about him- the thin scars across the bridge of his nose and under his right eye from the man he’d had to physically subdue when he was a deputy, the greying hair at his temples, the subtle sprinkling of freckles across his face. She’s rendered them with a kind of factual admiration that makes him feel strangely beautiful.

“These are- they’re really good.” It’s a massive understatement, he knows, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Carefully, she tears out one of the watercolors and hands it to him. “You should have one.”

He laughs. “Somethin’ to remember you by?”

She licks her lips, leans down to him close enough that her hair brushes against his neck, making him shiver. “You won’t forget me.”

He cocks his head up at her, drawing on some long-forgotten part of himself that vaguely knew how to flirt. “That a promise?”  

It is.

It seems like there’s only a moment between them locking lips in the armchair to them being naked and tangled up together between the pristine white sheets in Jadis’s starkly minimalist bedroom. The sex is wild, heated, with Jadis riding Rick until he’s twisted up with arousal and they're both huffing and moaning. His hands grip her hips as he rocks up into her until she smirks down at him and pins his wrists to the soft give of the mattress.

That only makes it better.

* * *

The next time Negan sees Rick is at Rosita and Tara’s place, where they’re grilling out by the pool. As soon as Rick sheds his shirt to get in the water, Negan sees it- the fading trail of hickies from his neck to his collarbone. It takes all the fun out of seeing Rick half-naked and glistening in the sunlight, his skin subtly sun-kissed from working out in his new garden.

He’d been looking forward to this, ready to drool over the strong, solid body that he wished was decorating his bed. Instead, he finds himself sulking and picking at his hotdog bun while Rick boosts Tara up onto his shoulders so they can chicken-fight with Michonne and Andrea. Fucking _Jadis_ , with her chill-as-fuck attitude and her sculptures and her weird-ass name, got to suck on Rick’s neck and to mark him up and do god-knows what else to him. He _knows_ it was her.

He shouldn’t say anything. If he was smart, if he _really_ wanted to prove to Rick that he’s someone worth being friends with again, he should leave it alone.

But of course he doesn’t.

As soon as Rick slips out of the pool to eat, Negan sidles up next to him under the guise of getting more chips.

“So. You and the art teacher, huh?” he muses oh-so-casually as Rick loads up his burger with extra tomatoes and lettuce. _The art teacher_ , like Negan doesn’t know her name.

Rick goes a little pink around the ears, but he seems to take it in stride. “Where’d you hear that from?”

Negan rolls his eyes. “I saw you at the PTA meeting, deputy. Seemed like you two were gettin’ awful cozy. And it looks like she left you a little souvenir.” Selfishly, he relishes the feel of Rick’s skin beneath his fingertips as he drags them over the fading marks there, delighted when he feels Rick shiver beneath the touch.

Rick hums low in his throat, noncommittal. “She’s…interestin’.”

Negan knows that tone of voice, all coy and pleased. His chest feels like someone just punched a hole clean through it. “You two fucked, then?” He doesn’t really need to ask. Rick’s terrible at hiding things like this.

Beside him, Rick stiffens. “Don’t know why that’s any of your business.”

 _Because I want to be with you_ , Negan wants to cry. _Because I fucking like you and I wish to hell and back that I hadn’t fucked everything up with you. Because I want to be the one you go to bed with every night and the one who gets to leave marks all over your neck to remind you of me._

Instead, Negan breathes out a long, slow breath. “Guess it’s not,” he admits. “I just-” he swallows and swallows and wishes the big empty cavern in his chest would close up. “Just thought that you weren’t into the casual thing.”

Rick shrugs and dumps a pile of jalapeño chips onto his plate. “I just figured I’d try somethin’ new. It’s a lot to ask of anybody to settle down with me.” There’s a resigned kind of sadness in Rick’s voice that Negan knows the other man isn't even aware of, and it breaks his heart a little. “We like each other. We’re just seein’ where things go.”

“She just likes you because you’re hot,” Negan grumbles.

“Maybe that’s enough for now,” Rick says quietly. “I’m lonely. I’ve been expectin’ too much from people. You showed me that.” Rick can’t even look at him, and maybe that’s a good thing, because Negan feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “It’s somethin’ new. We have fun together, and that’s more than what I had before. So for now…that’s enough.”

When Rick collects his plate and goes to sit and eat by Rosita and Arat, Negan doesn’t follow.

* * *

It seems like Rick’s lasting gift to Negan has been sleepless nights, and not the good kind. He keeps replaying Rick’s words over and over in his head, the guilt weighing heavily on his chest and tethering him there.

 _It’s a lot to ask of anybody_ , he’d said. And hadn’t Negan essentially thought the same thing? That Rick had been expecting too much, asking too much of him to want more than a night together?

At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it. Now, he can clearly see what that means to someone like Rick- that he’s too much, that loving him is a burden, that asking someone to really _care_ about him, to commit to him, is an unrealistic expectation.

 _You’re lucky anyone even wants to fuck you_ , is what Negan feels like he basically told Rick. _You should just take what you can get and be happy anyone wants anything to do with your messy, too-much-effort life at all._

He thinks of how he felt after Lucille left him, after that final fight when she’d told him that she was done. At the time, all he’d cared about was the fact that she’d found out. Now, he forces himself to dredge up the other things she’d said, the things that she’d kept bottled up inside for all the years they’d been together that had come rushing out of her like water from a broken dam.

_I felt like you never wanted a future with me, and it turns out I was right. I hoped to god for so long that I wasn’t, Negan. For so fucking long. I was lying to myself, thinking that maybe this time when you joked about getting married that you really meant it. That when we talked about what we’d name our kids, you were serious about having them with me one day._

He buries his face in his hands and tears burn behind his eyelids.

_I thought the one thing I could actually believe was that you loved me. Even if you didn’t want to have a family, even if you never wanted to get married…I thought you loved me. It thought it was me and you, and even if you didn’t want anything else, I was trying to be okay with that. You made me feel like- like I was asking so damn much of you all the time. I felt so guilty, thinking that I was the unreasonable one. That I was the one being unfair to you._

A single, hitching sob wrenches itself out of his lungs so hard that it hurts.

_What a fucking joke. You strung me along. You strung me along all this time in every way imaginable, and to top it all off, you had me thinking it was my fault._

He had sworn to himself that he would learn from his mistakes with Lucille. That he wouldn’t fuck himself and another person over like that ever again.

Turns out he didn’t learn a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't hate me


	7. Stumble

Being with Jadis is good- different, but good. They don’t ask a lot of each other and they have fun together. Rick thinks maybe this is what people were always going on about when he was in his twenties and already settled down: sex with no strings attached. It’s not the worst thing in the world, and Jadis has never treated him like Negan did, like he was something to be used and discarded. The breeziness of their relationship seems to suit her, and even if Rick’s not sure yet if it suits him, he’s willing to give it a try.

He thinks that maybe if Negan had been up front and told him that he wanted something like this from the get-go, things could have been different between them.

Then again, he catches passing thoughts of Negan with his kids or Negan on the back porch with him sipping lemonade and watching the sun set over the thick treeline behind Rick’s house, and he thinks _maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all._

With Negan, he’d been attached. He’d had expectations and allowed himself to think about the future, all those maybes and what-ifs. With Jadis, he doesn’t have to think about that. She hasn’t met his kids- not even Carl, because Carl hasn’t taken the art elective yet- and he thinks maybe that’s okay. Stay as unattached as possible, don’t get hurt. He remembers in his early days at the police academy that Shane has said something very similar about the people he slept with.

_It’s great that you found the love of your life or whatever in Lori, man. I’m happy for you. But I’m not lookin’ to settle right now. I’m here to have a good fuckin’ time, you know? One day, I’ll find a nice girl and we’ll go on doubles with you and Lori and all that shit. But right now? I’m free as a bird._

_Free as a bird_ was never Rick’s style with relationships, but he’s never liked that saying about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks.

* * *

Negan nervously adjusts his collar- why he thought that wearing a nice shirt would help his case, he has no idea. The flowers may have been a bad call too, now that he thinks of it. He just didn’t want to show up after all this time empty-handed and wearing a soup-stained hoodie.

It’s a nicer apartment than his own- a better part of town, within walking distance of a mom-and-pop coffee place and a secondhand bookstore. When he was driving up the street, he saw no less than three couples pushing posh little strollers along the neatly tree-lined sidewalk. Sure, one of them had a dog in the pram, but still.

He tries to be happy for her, he really does. She loves shit like that. She probably has friends over on the weekends for wine and cheese and other _real adult_ shit. She probably has a smokin’ hot boyfriend that hits the gym after work every day and comes home to her all sweaty and muscled-

“ _Negan?_ ”

Lucille is standing in the doorway to her apartment, her dark, curling hair barely tamed by a ponytail that she probably thinks makes her look sloppy, but Negan thinks makes her look angelic. Her tan skin is even more richly brown than usual, meaning she’s probably been in the sun. _On vacation, at the beach or something. Probably with Muscles McGee there to rub lotion on her back-_

“What the hell are you doing here?” Her arms are crossed, her mouth set in a guarded, disapproving frown. She’s eyeing the sad bouquet of sunshine-yellow daisies that he has a death-grip on, and, yeah, the flowers definitely seem like a mistake now.

“Hey, Lucy.” Lucille’s eyes flash warningly at the nickname, and he backtracks. _You’re not here to win her back, idiot_. “Lucille. You look…you look really good.”

Negan can practically _see_ her teeth gritting. “Why are you here, Negan?”

Negan likes to pride himself on being a man of many words. He’s a smooth-talker through and through, always has been. Now, though, confronted with the woman he’d loved and betrayed, his throat is as dry as the Sahara and it’s determined to make him choke on all of his apologies.

“I- I just wanted to say- oh! These are for you. I know they were your favorites.” He feels a little proud of himself for remembering Lucille’s favorite flower. He holds the daisies out to her and she takes them gingerly, with skepticism. “I know what you’re thinking- why the fuck am I here, right? I mean- you just asked me that. _Shit_. Um. Sorry, I-”

Lucille looks to be on the verge of telling him to go fuck himself. Negan manages to pull himself together for a whole thirty seconds.

“Lucille, I wanna tell you how fucking sorry I am. And I wanted to say it now, because when I was saying it before- I was trying to get you to stay. And that’s not a good reason to apologize, because you were right to leave me. I fucked the whole thing up, and god knows I was lucky to have as long with you as I got. I just wanted you to know that everything that happened- it was because there’s something wrong with _me_. You were enough. I just- I was scared, and I fucked it up because that’s apparently what I do when I get scared.” She has that _look_ on her face, the one Negan recognizes all too well from their years together. That _no shit, genius_ look. “But you already knew that, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Lucille agrees, “I did. What made you finally realize it?”

He doesn’t understand until too late that her question is rhetorical. “I- I did it again, Lucille. I fucked up with someone I care about and he…I’ve just had to face what I’ve been doing.”

He doesn’t quite understand why her face crumples like tissue paper for a long second before the pain in her eyes is replaced with anger.

“Great. Just fucking _great_ , Negan. I’m so glad you came here to tell me that you had to screw over another person to realize what you’d done to me. Glad to hear it.”

Negan’s heart drops into his stomach.

“No! No, no wait, Lucille!” He tries to stop her before she closes the door on him, stupidly throws one hand into the gap, and in return gets the smarting pain of the door closing on his hand and then bouncing back. He curses under his breath, and Lucille doesn’t apologize. _Why should she?_ he thinks. _I was the one trying to keep her from shutting the damn door. Dumbass._

“It’s bad enough for you to show up here, _months later_ , to try to apologize. I told you to leave me alone. To delete my number and not try to look me up again.” Lucille looks livid, and Negan hates that she’s so goddamned _gorgeous_ when she’s angry. “And yet here you are, to complain to me about how much of a shitty person you are. I don’t pity you, Negan. I pity the poor guy you hurt, but I don’t pity _you_. I cannot believe I let myself hope for a _second_ that you came here to apologize for what you did to me. But no- no, _of course_ it’s about someone else. It always is with you.”

“Lucille, I- it’s not like-” _Shit, shit, shit._

“The hell it isn’t, Negan!” She shouts. “You didn’t even see how badly you hurt me until you did it to someone else. Are you still chasing after him, too? Trying to win him over? Did you come here so you could tell him and prove how _reformed and repentant_ you are?” She spits the words like they’re poison in her mouth. For once in his life, Negan can’t speak, is afraid to. Lucille shakes her head and shoves the daisies back at him, petals falling and stems crumpling. “And my favorite flowers are sunflowers. I told you that every goddamned birthday and anniversary, and you never remembered. Not once. At least you’re consistent.”

She slams the door behind her, and Negan listens to the deadbolt slide into place, his hand still throbbing.

* * *

The first time Rick ate Jadis out, she all but directed his head with her fingers tangled into his long curls, like she didn’t trust him to do it right.

She hasn’t done that since the first time. Actually, she hasn’t done that since about two minutes into the first time, when Rick had proved himself more than capable and she’d loosened the reigns. Now, she only pulls his hair because she knows he likes it and it tears little stuttered moans out of him while his face is buried between her thighs.

The first time she’d blown him, he’d been so caught off guard by her pinning his hips to the wall and taking him into her mouth that he’d come embarrassingly quick and given her a rather poor impression of his stamina. He’s since made up for it, but she still likes to tease him about it sometimes, always good-naturedly.

Today, Rick’s bent over the mattress and trying not to scream every time Jadis’s strap-on rubs up against his prostate. It’s a grand effort, every muscle tense and a pillow between his teeth to try to muffle the noise, but _Jesus Christ-_

She threads her long fingers into his hair and pulls his head up, startling the pillow out of his mouth and leaving him open to grunt and curse and moan as she fucks him.

He lasts longer than the first time, at least.

When they’re both finished, they sprawl on the sheets and watch the fan spin above them, chilling their sweat-slick skin. Jadis’s bedroom is utterly different from the rest of her home in that it’s minimalist and pristine, Donald Judd to the Jackson Pollock of the rest of the house.

Maybe it’s because Jadis just fucked his brains out, along well as most of his better sense. Maybe it’s because her calming presence and the serenity of her bedroom makes him feel more able to be open. Maybe he’s just hit the limit of days he’s able to keep everything with Negan off his mind and pretend that it hasn’t infected the rest of his life, his self-esteem and trust.

For whatever reason, he finds himself staring at the whirring ceiling fan as he spills his guts to the woman that had just rearranged them.

He tells her about Lori, whom she’d already known about through the school grapevine. He tells her about Negan and his friends. He tells her that he thinks maybe he’s not worthy of being loved like that anymore, like the way he and Lori had loved each other. That time and tragedy and circumstance have made him into something less than he once was.

When he’s done, he half-expects her to kick him out and tell him that _this was supposed to be fun, and now you’ve ruined it._

Maybe he just feels too much, but he doesn't know how to stop.

Instead, she turns her face to the side where she’s lying upside-down beside him, and kisses his calf. “Are you asking me?”

Rick frowns. “No. No, I just…I guess I needed to get it out there.”

Jadis hums low in her throat, reminding Rick of a purring cat. “I care for you. Not in the way you’re talking about, but I do.” She sits up, her warm palm gliding up his body from thigh to hip to chest, where it lingers. “You are not, as you said, unlovable.”

Rick cringes and closes his eyes, tipping his head back further on the pillows. “Sounds stupid when you say it. Like I’m fifteen again, gettin’ over my first breakup.”

“Ah,” Jadis says wryly, and Rick cracks an eye to see her playful smirk. “So you were _always_ overdramatic.”

Rick groans and shakes his head, eyes slipping shut again. There’s a smile on his face, though. “I guess I was.”

They’re silent for a long time. That’s another thing that Rick has with Jadis that he rarely gets at home- peace and quiet. She breaks it after a long while, surprising him.

“There’s someone I’m not over, either,” she admits. She doesn’t sound sad, exactly, but this is certainly more personal than she’s ever gotten with him before. “Someone I haven’t seen in years.” She sighs, contemplative. "I think I was the one who hurt her, though. Or maybe we both hurt each other."

Rick mirrors her move, leaning over to press a kiss to her shin, and he can almost see her smiling. He's not sure that they solved anything, but sometimes it feels good just to be heard. 

* * *

Negan is wrist-deep in potting soil, his shirt long since sacrificed to the cause as he sweats and grunts and toils away in the sunniest corner of his back patio. Good thing it was only a cheap gray tee, because it’s never going to come clean now.

The whole endeavor had cost more than he’d anticipated. After the thirst trip to Home Depot for some other thing he’d forgotten on the previous visits, he stopped looking at the receipts.

It’s been hours of assembling planters and laying soil and researching how to plant seeds so they’re best able to germinate and grow. The back patio is scattered with soil and clay pots and tiny shovels. He’s so soaked with sweat that he doesn’t want to move, and his downstairs neighbors have yelled at him twice about sloshing water down onto their patio, but the deed is done. Now all he has to do was wait.

How long could it take, anyway? A few days? A week or two at most?

* * *

Two months. Sunflowers take up to two months to reach full maturity. Negan blinks at his phone screen, which has fogged over from the steam of his shower. _Two fucking months. Shit. I should have looked this up before I got started._

It’s just past eleven, he’d slaved in the hot sun for close to six hours and gone to Home Depot three times, and these fuckers are going to take _two whole fucking months_ to bloom.

He’s struck with an impatient urge to get things done _now_ \- surely there’s got to be loads more flowers that bloom faster than that.

He had never even asked Rick what his favorite was, anyway.

He shoots him a text now- _Hey what’s ur fave flower?_ and then follows it up with _Just wondering,_ because he doesn’t want Rick to think this is some grand gesture of romance.

He drains a six-pack like it’s water and waits, chases it with whiskey.

It’s midnight, and still no response.

He thinks that it’s possible that the sun fried his brain, because he finds himself driving to Rick Grimes’ house at twelve-eighteen in the morning. He’s got nothing else to do, anyway.

He might be a little drunk. He might be drunk enough that he shouldn’t be behind the wheel and going to Rick’s house is among the worst choices he could make.

Rick’s sleepy neighborhood is even sleepier past ten, and Negan feels like he has to tiptoe up the front porch. Which is stupid, because he’s about to knock on the front door and wake Rick up, anyway. There’s a car in the driveway beside Rick’s station wagon, a compact silver car that Negan doesn’t recognize. Maybe Carl’s ride for when he gets his license?

Negan knocks once, then twice, then four times, feeling a little creeped out by the dense trees separating Rick’s house from the neighbors’. He can make out the barest glimmer of the front porch light through the thick tangle branches, and every little rustle of wind makes his hair stand on end.

There’s not a single light on in the whole house, but Rick’s got to be home, so Negan rings the doorbell.

It’s only when he sees the light come on through the thin curtains beside the door that he thinks _oh, shit, I probably just woke his kids up, too._

Immediately, he sees this plan for what it was: selfish, impatient, drunken bullheadedness. Rick went to bed early and here’s Negan, banging down his door because he doesn’t want to wait two months for sunflowers to grow.

The guilt is almost enough to make him ditch- Rick surely won’t be impressed at this little stunt- but something roots him to the spot.

The easy option would be to run away. Absolve himself of blame, at least in Rick’s eyes. But it wouldn’t change the fact that Rick was now awake and padding blearily down the stairs, pulling aside the curtain to look out and see Negan standing stupidly on his doormat that’s so worn and faded with the constant scuffle of shoes that its message is unreadable.

The front door opens, and for the second time that day, Negan is greeted by a person speaking his name with a confused sort of exasperation. 

“ _Negan?_ ”

Rick blinks hard, like he thinks maybe he’s dreaming. His hair is rumpled to the point of comedy, long curls flying free into his face and sticking out at impossible angles. He’s wearing a pair of tight boxer-briefs that are slung dangerously low on his hips, like he’d just thrown them on to open the door. Negan swallows hard, remembering how it felt to grip those hips and trace that subtle v that leads to his groin.

Negan would love to believe that Rick just rolled out of an empty bed, but he’s pretty sure that the tight, pale pink t-shirt that reads ‘(tr)eat your girl right’ doesn't belong to him.

Remembering that he’s already being selfish just by being here, Negan doesn’t bring it up. It's not his business.

“Hey, uh. I was just- just in the fucking neighborhood.” He hopes Rick’s tired enough to buy that shit, but he’s not about to put money on it. “Wanted to know what your favorite flower is. No reason. Just curious. I’m taking a poll.”

He’s an idiot.

Rick just stares at him, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“You want to know…what my favorite _flower_ is?”

Negan thinks he’s rather lucky that Rick hasn’t slammed the door in his face yet. He wants to take it as a good sign.

“You’re drunk,” Rick says shortly, like he’s not surprised but he’s pissed anyway. Negan hangs his head like a scolded dog and doesn’t realize until it’s too late that Rick's wrestled his car keys out of his hand. “Was this the plan? Come here drunk because you thought I’d make you stay here? Play daddy and tuck you in like nothin’ was wrong?” He goes to shove Negan’s keys in his own pocket for safekeeping, only he doesn’t have one and they end up on the floor. Rick kicks them away, out of Negan’s reach. “I’ll give these to Jadis and you can get them from her at work tomorrow.”

So Jadis _is_ here. Of fucking _course_ that's his luck.

“I’m callin’ you a cab. You’re not stayin’ here. If I find you on the porch or sleepin' in your car in the mornin’, you’re not gonna like what happens.” He’s such a fucking _dad_ that it makes Negan ache. In the morning, he’s sure he’ll want to crawl in a hole out of sheer embarrassment for making Rick parent him like this. “You can get a ride to work tomorrow.”

Aah, there’s the door slam.

Negan finds himself nose-to-woodgrain with Rick’s front door. The light inside the house dies away after a minute, and Negan realizes that maybe he’s lost control of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has taken so many turns, i swear there's an endgame here that's not completely miserable.


	8. Sprout

Rick is relieved to find that Negan isn’t sleeping in his car in the morning.

It’s early, but Rick is wide awake despite his lack of alarm clock. He’s so used to getting the kids up for school that his body is naturally tuned to the morning. Jadis is still asleep, no doubt taking advantage of the fact that she doesn’t have a morning class and doesn’t need to be on school grounds until first period is over.

He pads down the stairs and into the kitchen, brewing up a pot of coffee and cracking eggs into a frying pan while he texts Michonne and asks her if the kids are behaving. Judith is an early riser through and through, and she’s not yet at the stage where school is so terrible that she hates going, so she’s usually easy. Carl, on the other hand, needs to be borderline dragged from the bed some mornings.

_They’re ready to go. Judith and Andre have been awake since before dawn. Carl didn’t give me any problems, surprise surprise._

Rick chuckles and flips an egg, careful not to break the yolk. Surprise, surprise indeed. He should have guessed that Carl would be more cooperative for Michonne.

 _Thank you for taking them to school. I appreciate it._ It’s the first time Jadis has been to his house for more than an afternoon quickie. It’s nice waking up in bed beside someone again.

_It’s no problem. I’ve gotta go to the school anyway, and you know Andrea and I love having your kids around. Besides, I still owe you for my anniversary._

Rick had taken Andre for three days a few months back when Michonne and Andrea had taken a trip to the mountains for their anniversary. Andre’s an easy kid, and he and Judith keep each other entertained, so it really wasn’t any bother, but Rick’s not about to turn down a night to himself.

The creak of footsteps on the stairs makes his head turn from the stove. Jadis is a different kind of beautiful in the mornings, her hair wild and waving around her face. She looks like a lion. Rick’s eyes fall to the hickey he'd left her right collarbone, which is peeking out from the shirt she’s loosely wearing- his shirt from yesterday. She gives him a quick once-over as he puts the pieces together, her dark eyes dancing.

“You know, I think I like it better on you.”

Rick tugs at the shirt he’d grabbed frantically in the dark last night when Negan had come calling. _(Tr)eat your girl right_. Christ. He’s just as surprised as anyone when, instead of blushing like mad, he gives her a flirty little smile and says, “after last night, I think I earned it.”

Jadis’s nose crinkles charmingly when she laughs. “You did,” she agrees, and slides into one of the stools at the counter. “Did you make me breakfast as well? Aren’t you a gentleman.”

“Coffee ‘n eggs. It’s nothin’ much.” He slides said eggs onto a plate and they dig in together, forks sparring for the last bits of fried white. Negan’s keys sit at the end of the counter, and Rick is pointedly not looking at them.

“I’m sorry about, ah...last night.” She’d woken up when Negan came knocking, and when he’d come back to bed, he’d barely explained it when she’d asked. He just wanted to get back to sleep.

“Mm,” Jadis hums around her coffee mug. “He’s the one you’re hung up on?”

Rick practically jokes on his last bite of egg, his face growing hot. Jadis is just watching him, too perceptive for her own good. How the hell did she read him like that? Is he that obvious?

“It’s alright,” she says easily. “Some people have a way of sticking with us.”

 _I don’t want him to stick with me_ , Rick thinks childishly. “Still. I don’t want him here…doin’ shit like that.” He gnaws his lower lip guiltily, the jumble of keys still floating in his peripheral vision. There's a single decorative keychain clustered among them- a little baseball bat. “Would you mind- shit, I’m sorry. I’ll just drop by his house, put them in the mailbox.”

Jadis rolls her eyes. “I’ll leave them on his desk, Rick. We’re adults.”

Rick sighs gratefully. “Thank you.”

She slides out of her chair with all the fluid grace of a panther and sidles up behind him, her arms circling his waist, lips at his neck. “Thank you for breakfast.” A kiss at his nape, making him shiver. “And for letting me stay the night.” Her hand slips beneath the thin t-shirt, smoothing over the sensitive skin just above the band of his underwear. Rick’s heart speeds up, heat pooling between his thighs.

“You- you don’t have to-” his hips twitch forward when her fingers come up to toy with his nipples, tweaking them into hardness. “ _Ah_ \- don’t- don’t you need to get to work…?” God, he wishes he could shut himself up.

She has it covered.

“Shh,” she hushes him, lips at the shell of his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “I’ve got time.”

 _Not like I take that long, anyway_ , he thinks with a flush of heat.

Within moments, his briefs are on the kitchen floor, legs apart as Jadis gives his cock long, luxurious strokes and cups his balls tenderly, all but wringing the orgasm out of him. He’s half-bent over the counter and resting on his forearms, making the most ridiculous, needy moans as she works him over. She speaks low, right against his neck so her words make his skin tingle.

“ _Next time_ ,” she promises in a sin-colored whisper, “ _I’m going to spread you out and earn my shirt back._ ”

Rick’s sure he’s red as a berry at the implication, one of her hands moving up to roam over his bare ass. She gives him a single playful smack across one firm cheek, and he comes so hard that his vision goes blurry at the edges.

It takes him a minute to collect himself again. He’s still half-naked when he turns, lifts Jadis onto the countertop, and licks his own lips at the sight of hers, bare beneath his own oversized shirt hanging off her shoulders.

“You just ate breakfast,” she teases him with a smirk. “Can’t believe you’re still hungry.”

“I want dessert,” he purrs, and buries his head between her thighs.

* * *

It’s not one of Negan’s proudest mornings.

Hungover, humiliated, he downs a couple Tylenol with his morning coffee and calls Arat with his tail between his legs to beg for a ride to work. He can’t swallow enough of his ruined pride to call Simon, who would definitely give him hell over what he did last night.

At the very least, Arat’s judgment is silent as she drops him off.

He trudges with leaden limbs into his office and closes himself in. On his desk among the mess of paperwork and tardy slips are his keys. No muss, no fuss. He can’t tell whether Jadis left them there to spare him the further embarrassment of having to face her, or because she just didn’t care to see him. Either way, he’s grateful.

He considers just holing up in his office the whole day to lick his wounds, but after the first three periods with a pounding headache and heavy eyelids, he’s jonesing for coffee so bad that the mostly-empty styrofoam cup in his trashcan from last week is looking promising.

Of course Jadis is taking her lunch the same time as him, because the world can never let him catch a goddamned _break_. He can feel her catlike gaze on him as he shuffles into the staffroom and makes a beeline for the coffee maker, but she doesn’t approach him. He feels like there’s a rock in the pit of his stomach and he just wants it out.

The fucking coffee maker is taking _forever_.

Negan’s got his shoulders up as close as he can get them to his ears, giving off _don’t-talk-to-me_ vibes like it’s his job, when he remembers what Michonne said to him about how he doesn’t handle his shit like an adult. Dodge and avoid until it blows up in his face or goes away, always hoping that nobody will point a finger at him to take some responsibility.

He chances a cursory glance behind him. Jadis is curled in an armchair with a book, not even looking at him.

_Fucking paranoid idiot._

The coffee maker splutters one last time, spitting out the last of its lifeblood into Negan’s cup so he can load it up with so much sugar and cream that it barely resembles coffee anymore. He takes a long draught, feels like he’s gained some stamina for the rest of the day and what he’s about to do.

_Be a fucking adult. Handle your shit._

He plops down into the chair across from Jadis, who quirks one immaculately arched eyebrow at him over the spine of her book.

“Thanks for dropping off my keys,” he begins, because he’s smart enough to know that hookup protocol doesn’t usually involve delivering some drunk asshole’s keys to him the next morning. “And, uh. I’m fucking sorry for last night.” He almost adds _I was drunk off my ass_ , but thinks better of it. No excuses, just apologies.

“It's no bother,” Jadis replies evenly- she’s so fucking hard to read. Is she pissed? Amused? Annoyed? It’s damn near impossible to tell. He wonders if Rick’s better at it than him.

“It won’t happen again,” Negan says with more confidence in himself than he deserves. But all at once, sitting here with the woman who’s been fucking Rick, he realizes that he means it- he’s done acting like a little kid chasing the toys he can’t have. “I’ve got some shit to work out, I’m not gonna lie. Hell, I’ve had some shit to work out for a long fuckin’ time. I- I care about Rick a lot,” he admits thickly, and suddenly the swirling beige vortex of his coffee is the only thing he can look at. “I don’t want to keep doing this shit to him.”

“Good,” Jadis says simply, but it’s in a way that’s full of knowing. His eyes snap up to meet hers, and they’re not unfriendly.

“You know. About- about me. And him.” It’s not a question. It feels like she’s already told him- she says so much while saying so little.

Her hair fans against her cheek as she nods. “Yes. I guessed, Rick confirmed.”

Negan exhales out a self-depreciating laugh. “Guess you know I’m a huge asshole then, huh?”

Jadis’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Yes.” And then, more contemplative- “It’s good that you’re getting yourself together. That you care for him.”

There’s a stupid, petty part of Negan that desperately wants to ask her if she thinks he’ll ever have a chance with Rick again, if this thing between them is long-term. He holds his tongue.

“I do,” he says instead, and he means it with every fiber of his shitty being. “And I’m guessing you do, too. Care about him.”

She nods, and he pretends that it doesn’t make him jealous. “I do. It’s different, though, me and him.”

Negan wants to ask what the hell that means. He refrains. Self-restraint doesn’t come easy to him, but fuck if he isn't going to try.

“I don’t want him to get hurt again,” she says simply. There doesn’t seem to be much more to say. She goes back to her book, and Negan guzzles the rest of his coffee before the bell rings.

* * *

It takes Negan over an hour of editing and revising to compose a text that’s worthy of being sent to Rick. He’s determined to change, to see this thing through until he’s mended the bridges he hasn’t completely burned to the ground.

Baby steps. He’s making baby steps toward being someone worthy of being in Rick’s life.

_Rick, I’m sorry about last night. For showing up on your fucking doorstep like an idiot. I’m sorry about everything. About me, about Simon, about all the shit I did to you, said about you. You deserve better than that. I’m going to be better, and for once I’m not going to make a bunch of empty fucking promises. I’ve hurt a lot of people. People I care about. I care about you. I want to be someone that’s worthy of being your friend._

_Jadis seems like a cool chick. I hope she’s fucking your brains out and then fucking them back in every night._

He does actually mean that last part, as much as it pains him that it’s not him doing the fucking. He wants to think that maybe one day that’ll be him, but he can’t cling to that. He can’t make that the reason he’s trying to be a better person.

He sends the text at a reasonable hour instead of at midnight. He eats a dinner for one on his back patio surrounded by dirt and spare lumber, because of course he’d ended up getting more than he needed to build the planters. His phone is inside on the coffee table, and he’s trying not to think about if Rick’s texted him back.

* * *

The next morning, Negan wakes to the sound of his phone vibrating on the table beside his bed. Just once, then it falls silent, and he hold his breath in some kind of vain, selfish hope before he picks it up.

For once, getting his hopes up hasn’t failed him.

Rick’s text glows on his screen, short and simple: _Thank you. I’m glad to hear you’re working on yourself._

It takes all of Negan’s willpower not to text Rick again. He hasn’t earned it yet. _Restraint_ , he tells himself as he rolls out of bed. _Self-control._

Before he leaves for work, he checks on his sunflowers to make sure they’ve got enough water. As soon as he lays eyes on them, he feels almost giddy.

There, amid the deep, rich brown of the soil, are tiny shoots of green beginning to take root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be the last one!


	9. Shine

Negan makes a vow to himself and to Rick, though Rick doesn’t know it yet. Patience has been something Negan struggled with ever since he was a child. _Instant gratification_ , that’s what his mother always told him he needed. If he wanted a toy, he wanted it _now_ , not in three days when he got his allowance. He would sneak cookies before dinner because he didn’t see why it mattered if he ate them before or after his green beans. Restless and demanding, he could never wait for anything good to naturally bloom for him- he had to try to force the good things to come to him before they were ready.

Deep down, in a place that he’s only just beginning to understand and conquer, he knows that his impatience and greed are what drove him to cheat on Lucille and do what he did to Rick. It’s taken him fifty-one years, but he’s finally ready to grow the fuck up.

Patience doesn’t come naturally to him, and every day that he wakes up and scurries out onto his patio to see that there aren’t giant yellow blooms in his makeshift garden, he has to work to tamp down the swell of disappointment. He tells himself that _this is good, Rick needs time, it’s only been a week._

He allows himself little rewards for good behavior, like he’s five years old again. He texts Rick once a week, _just once_ , and he keeps it friendly and light. _How was work? I heard Judith’s got an ear infection, is she doing alright? Carl did really well tonight in practice, I wish I could’ve taken a picture of his face when he hit his first home run._

It’s the kind of thing that Rick would text him on occasion before Negan fucked everything up. The kind of thing that friends text each other. Over and over, he has to backspace questions about Jadis or if Rick’s still angry with him.

Every day, it seems to get a little bit easier.

* * *

Jadis’s long legs are locked tightly around Rick’s waist, her slender sculptor’s fingers tangled deep in his long hair as he drives into her again and again, rocking her against the wall. He’s so close, his cock throbbing inside her, but he’s determined to get her there first. He adjusts his hold on her just a little, feels her clench all around him and yank his hair in a way that he knows means that he’s doing well. It’s been a long time since he’s slept with a woman, but the last several weeks with Jadis have brought it all back. _Just like riding a bike,_ he teased her once, which naturally led to him on his back, being ridden so hard that when he came he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

Her short nails rake down his back and he moans loudly, burying his face into her neck. He knows she’s smirking at him, but he likes it. The next thrust sees the thick base of his dick rubbing right up against her clit, and she makes a noise that gives Rick goosebumps.

It’s a small miracle that they both manage to stay upright when they come. Rick’s legs feel like they’re made of water, and it’s with great difficulty and a bit of wobbling that he walks them the three feet to her bed where they collapse onto the tangled sheets that they’d sullied earlier.

“Your wife…was a rather lucky woman,” Jadis notes bluntly, and for the first time in god only knows how long, the mention of Lori makes Rick smile instead of withdraw. Jadis has never shied away from things that are difficult to talk about, and Rick thinks that maybe that’s a good thing. She’s a unique soul, foreword and honest, and maybe more people need someone like that in their lives.

“Yeah, well,” Rick smiles faintly, prodding gingerly at memories of Lori, “I was pretty lucky, too.”

Jadis rolls onto her side to face him, and Rick has to make a conscious effort not to stare at her breasts. “I’m in a show this Saturday. You should come.”

“An art show?” Nervousness blooms in Rick’s belly. “I, ah. I’ve never been to anything like that. What do I…” _Wear? Do? Say? How do I act?_

“Nice pants. Not those.” Jadis points an accusatory finger at Rick’s beat-to-hell jeans that lie in a heap on her bedroom floor. At one point in time, they were black. Now, they're faded to gray. “You should be there. You’re in it.”

Rick splutters, face aflame. _“What?”_

She grins slyly. “The sculpture. People will want to see my muse.”

Rick swallows hard. The sculpture, the one that she’d eventually coaxed him to shed all of his clothes for, would be proudly on display for who-knows-how-many people on Saturday. A cocktail of nervousness and embarrassment and excitement churned in his belly.

“I told you I was going to submit it to exhibitions once it was finished,” she reminds him, and, yeah, he does remember that. But it had been in the early stages of the piece, and that had seemed so far off. “Rick?”

“Yeah,” he manages. Well, he’s definitely not going to be bringing his kids with him to this. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

* * *

Come Saturday evening, Rick’s dropped off Carl and Judith with Michonne and Andrea and is anxiously fiddling with the collar of his shirt, wondering if he’s dressed nice enough. He’s sitting in the car outside _The Heaps_ , a tiny gallery just outside of Atlanta, trying to work up the nerve to go inside, when his phone buzzes.

It’s the strangest thing, how seeing Negan’s name doesn’t fill him with dread anymore. He’s been so different the last couple weeks- no comments about what happened between them, no overt flirtation, no questions about Rick’s sex life. The only times they’ve seen each other in person are when Rick picks Carl up from baseball practice, and even then Negan has been casual and friendly, but not overly so. He’s respectful, and the one time Rick asked him what was going on, Negan simply replied _, I’m trying to get my shit together._

For once, it seems to be sticking.

He reads Negan’s text. _Hey, do you have that brownie recipe you made for the Xmas party last year? I’m fuckin craving chocolate._

Rick snorts. _They were fudge brownies from a mix. Betty Crocker or something. I’m flattered you think I could make brownies from scratch._

Negan replies seconds later. _Well, shit, Rick. You had me fooled. Makes my life easier, though._

 _You gonna eat the whole pan yourself?_ Rick teases, and then regrets sending it immediately because it could be read as him asking if Negan’s got company.

_Fuck yeah, cowboy. This is my breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next two days. Don’t you judge me. I can feel you fucking judging me from across town._

Rick laughs to himself. _I’m nearly in Atlanta, actually. Your judgment radar must be long-range._

_Or maybe your judgment is just that powerful. Why're you in the city?_

Rick debates not telling him for a second, then spills anyway. _Jadis has a couple pieces in an art show. One of them is me. I mean, it’s a sculpture of me. She asked me to come._

It takes Negan a little longer to reply to that one, but when he does, the tone is the same. _Well, shit! Look at you, all fuckin’ high class. She draw you like one of her French girls?_

Is this flirting? Rick can’t tell. He was never good at deciphering that kind of thing. It took Lori kissing him and asking him out for it to finally click that she was into him. _She did, actually. Took some convincing._ _I’m playing chicken right now sitting out in the car trying to work up the nerve to go inside._

He feels a little foolish, but he’s just not sure that he’ll be able to pull off a night of mingling with artists.

_Nut the fuck up, cowboy! Get in there and let all those artsy types fawn over you. You can handle a night of being arm candy._

That makes Rick bark out a laugh and unbuckle his seatbelt. _Alright, alright. Good luck with your brownies._

One last glance in the rearview mirror, and Rick’s out of the car and walking into the gallery. It looks like a small warehouse that was refurbished, the walls all made of thick metal sheets that have been painted a pristine white. An older man sits at a small front desk, handing out flyers with information about the show. It’s all one room, divided off by makeshift walls to give the art a more intimate feeling. The gathering isn’t massive, maybe thirty people mingling and sipping champagne from the bar nestled in the far left corner of the space. The show itself is eclectic, featuring paintings and photography alongside huge metal sculptures and what look to be sewn tapestries draped on the walls. Rick spots Jadis easily- she’s decked out in all black, looking radiant and in her element. She beams and waves Rick over when she spots him.

“Rick.” She looks him up and down and he has to stop himself from squirming apprehensively under her scrutiny. “You look perfect.” He visibly relaxes, and she slides one hand into the back pocket of his slacks, giving his ass a generous squeeze. “Do you like it?”

Rick has to crane his head up to take in the full effect of the sculpture. He’s never seen it like this, and he notices a few extra touches – bands of gold circling his neck, right wrist, left ankle, and ring finger. It makes him rub the empty place where his wedding ring used to be. Upon closer inspection, there seem to be flecks of gold in the glaze she’d used, making him twinkle in the white light of the gallery. He tries his best to ignore the pink flush that spreads across his cheeks at his nude body captured in clay and put on display for patrons to see, instead circling it to pick out the little details that he hasn’t seen yet, like the way she included the scars across his nose and under his right eye and palm, and the one on his back from where he was shot, but has rendered them in gold, making them stand out. It’s odd, seeing the scars that he tries to forget about being called attention to, but also being made beautiful.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” he jokes, “they’re gonna know you made me look better than I really do.”

Jadis gives him a stern, sideways look. “I could never capture how gorgeous you really are,” she says with such factual simplicity that Rick can’t think of a response.

They mingle for a while, Rick sipping champagne to ease his nerves. When Jadis is called away to talk about her work, Rick finds himself checking his phone. Negan’s texted him back once, a photo of freshly backed brownies attached. _They weren’t as good as the ones at the party, but still pretty fucking tasty._

 _Looks good to me_ , Rick sends back. He finishes off a finger sandwich and Negan texts him back as he’s loading up his tiny plate with more hors d'oeuvres.

_How’s the art show?_

Rick nibbles at a crab puff. _Going good. The statue looks great._

 _She had good subject matter to work with_ , Negan replies, and maybe it’s just the champagne hitting him, but Rick feels his cheeks color. _You gonna send me a picture?_

 _Friends don’t send friends nude photos_ , Rick texts back in a fit of insanity. His face goes scarlet as soon as he hits send, immediately regretting it. _Okay, that was flirting_ , he thinks. _Even I know that was flirting._

Negan’s taking too long to reply. Was that too much? It was definitely too much. Rick stuffs the rest of the crab puff in his mouth.

 _It’s nothing I haven’t seen before_ , Negan finally replies, and yeah, okay, Rick’s getting flustered now, and he’s definitely had too much to drink because he’s thinking about Negan’s hands on him, how he’d touched and held him that night, and if he doesn’t get himself together soon, he’s going to embarrass himself.

He takes a few deep breaths, dumps his empty plate in favor of a glass of water, and texts Negan back one last time. _You should see it in person. Show’s open until next Sunday._ He sends Negan the gallery address before tucking his phone away, mentally chiding himself.

Toward the end of the night, Rick and Jadis are talking with a couple of the other artists from the show when something odd happens. One moment, Jadis is talking freely about how she started sculpting, and the next she goes stock-still like a deer in the headlights. It’s the first time since Rick’s met Jadis that she seems completely caught off-guard, and he follows her unblinking gaze across the room to the woman that just walked into the gallery.

Rick doesn’t recognize her, but Jadis clearly does. The woman is shorter than Jadis, her straw-colored hair pilled in a messy bun, her clothes simple and understated, but there’s an air to her that reminds him of Jadis herself. Her presence isn’t quite as intimidating, but there’s a resolve in her pale blue eyes that feels familiar.

“I…” Jadis trails off, wringing her hands. Rick is stunned. “I’ll- I’ll be back. Excuse me.” The other artists dip off politely to strike up a conversation about pricing for some of the glossy photographs on the wall, and Rick tries to be subtle about watching Jadis and the mystery woman.

There’s an odd energy around them, like neither knows exactly how to act. Shifting hands, restless legs, bodies leaning in and then pulling away like they’re magnets that can’t decide if they’re attracted or repelled. The blonde woman’s face pinches for a moment after Jadis says something, jaw flexing, and then she nods and speaks and relaxes again. She tips her head toward the exhibition, and Jadis turns, follows her as she makes her way deeper inside.

Rick gives them their space. He may be terrible at flirting, but he can tell when people need to be left to themselves. The woman makes a beeline for Jadis’ smaller sculptures, the metal ones made to look like animals. There’s a couple that are hands, modeled after Rick’s own, with the same golden scar on his right palm and band on his left ring finger.

He sees them glancing toward them and tries to duck his head and look busy, except he’s stupidly placed himself in the gap between two pieces with nothing to really look at without looking weird. Jadis’s eyes are laughing as she beckons him over.

“Rick,” she says, one hand briefly touching the small of his back to sooth him, “this is Tamiel.”

 _Tamiel_. The name is strange, just like Jadis’s own. It seems only fitting. They don’t shake hands, Tamiel simply greets him with a friendly nod of her head before a furtive glance at the statue of him. Rick hopes he isn’t blushing too visibly. “Rick,” she says, and there’s a lilt to her voice similar to Jadis’s. Maybe they’re family? They don’t look anything alike, though. “You’re her new muse?”

There’s something loaded in the way she says it- _her new muse_. All at once, Rick’s brain fits the scattered pieces together. _There’s someone I’m not over, either. Someone I haven’t seen in years._ Could this be her? The similar accent could be from living in the same place, growing up together. Jadis did mention once that she only moved to Georgia a few years ago.

Rick rubs his palms over his slacks, smiling sheepishly. “I, ah. I guess so? We’re…friends.” Tamiel gives a pointed look at the statue’s intricately detailed groin, and Rick’s ears burn. “Close friends.”

That makes her laugh, and when she throws her head back the light hits her eyes just so, and Rick suddenly realizes why they looked so familiar in an unfamiliar face- he’s seen them before in some of the paintings in Jadis’s home, ones stashed away in the closet of her studio behind empty canvases. Rows and rows of heavy-lidded, knowing blue eyes rendered so perfectly that he can place them on this woman’s face.

Jadis hovers near Tamiel the rest of the night like a moon drawn into orbit. It’s amusing, seeing Jadis so taken with someone. When the gallery closes for the night and the last of the patrons filter out, Jadis asks him to wait for her just a moment. She walks Tamiel to her car, and the women clasp hands for a long moment. Jadis says something, and Tamiel nods, and Jadis has this look on her face like she’s been kissed by the sun.

Rick smirks knowingly and leans against Jadis’s car as she walks back. She looks at him like she already knows what he’s thinking.

“She’s an old friend. We grew up together.” Rick’s dimples deepen and he quirks and eyebrow, making Jadis laugh. “We were very close. _Close friends_ ,” she teases him.

“Looked like more than that to me,” Rick says with mock innocence. “Is she…she’s the one you mentioned before, right? The one you didn’t get over?” He’s surprised that he isn’t at least a little jealous. He always reminded himself that this thing with Jadis was temporary, but he really thought he’d get clingy like he had with Negan. Maybe it helped to know upfront what he was getting into.

Jadis’s hair flutters in the nighttime breeze. “Yes,” she says simply, and just that one word says so much, holds so much history and weight within it. “I…she hasn’t spoken to me in years. I’ve sent her an invitation to every show I’ve been in, and she’s never come.” She visibly swallows, and Rick reaches out to squeeze her hand. “But she came. Tonight. And she- she agreed to meet up with me again.” She cups the side of Rick’s face and there’s something apologetic there, something sad and hopeful and maybe regretful, too. She’s quiet, but the silence is loaded, and Rick feels like she’s trying to find a way to say goodbye.

And for once in Rick’s life, he gets the chance to say a proper farewell. Lori had been wrenched from him before he knew what had happened, Negan had left him spinning out into a ditch, but Jadis is trying to hold his hand and walk him out the front door with a kiss on the cheek, so careful not to break him like he’s been broken before. For once, the loss doesn’t feel like a break- it feels like a new beginning for them both.

“I’m glad she found you again,” Rick murmurs, lifting Jadis’s hand to his lips. There’s a playfulness in his eyes that she brought back to life in him, and he won’t let losing her as a lover make it fade. “I’ve enjoyed being your… _close friend_.”

She laughs wildly and cups his face in both hands, kissing him like she’s going off to war. “Perhaps we can still be friends?” She ventures hopefully, and yeah, Rick would like that. His life is better for Jadis being in it, sex or no sex.

So he says, “I’d like that,” and leans in one last time to kiss her cheek. “Take care of her,” he says, and Jadis squeezes his hand.

“Take care of _you_ ,” she replies. She gives him one last once-over and then that signature knowing, catlike smile curves her full lips. “You are very much loved, Rick Grimes.”

Rick feels his throat get thick, but it’s in a good way. As they part ways, he replays her final words to him over and over, wondering why it sounded like she was speaking for more than herself.

* * *

 

Since their last awkward talk in the teacher workroom, Negan hasn’t spoken with Jadis, so he’s a little more than surprised to see her standing by his office door after his last class of the day.

“I think you’re lost. Art room’s down the hall. Big honkin’ painting of a cat right outside, you can’t fucking miss it,” he jokes.

She doesn’t laugh. Her face is stern and set, and he’s slightly alarmed until she speaks.

“You will take care of him this time.”

Negan blinks hard, processing. “Yeah, uh. What?”

She rolls her eyes and makes an impatient sound. “You won’t hurt him again. Not this time.”

He pulls at his collar, scrubs a hand over his beard stubble. Damn, he needs to shave that shit. “I don’t- I’m not…” he trails off weakly. How the hell does she know what he’s planning?

“You are,” she corrects. “You’re drawn to him. Some people are like that. But you won’t hurt him this time.” It’s a statement more than a question, but he still feels obligated to answer.

“I won’t,” he confirms.

His sunflowers began to bloom this morning, and he’s dying to go home and check on them.

* * *

Rick gets a text on Friday evening while he’s cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. It’s a photo, and when he opens it, he’s equal parts embarrassed and pleased.

 _Finally had a chance to see this_ , Negan’s text reads. _Kinda thought you were joking about the nude thing, but holy shit. Jadis is one lucky gal._

Rick finds himself correcting him. _Was. She’s working on getting back together with a woman she used to date._ And then, because he doesn’t want to seem like a bummer _: You like the statue? I mean, it’s good. Real good, just seems like a little much to me._

Because who the hell needs to elevate _him_ like that? It seems like a waste of time and clay. All that work, and for what? Surely Jadis won’t keep it on display in her home.

_You alright? And fuck yeah, it’s badass. Not as good as the real thing, but hell. She came pretty damn close._

Rick blinks at the text, the paranoid, hurt part of himself that he’s been trying to bury coming out of the woodwork just to make him wonder if Negan’s words are empty flattery. There’s a pang in his chest, and usually something like that would make him shut down and recoil. Instead, he tamps it down like he’s putting out a lit match before the flames can spread. He thinks about how Jadis made him feel when they were in bed together or when she was drawing him, how wanted and beautiful and worthwhile. He thinks about her words. _You are gorgeous. You are loved._

He repeats them over in his head and texts Negan back.

_Yeah, I’m alright. We’re still friends. I’m glad you like it._

* * *

Thirty-seven days. That’s how long it takes for Negan’s sunflowers to reach full bloom, their stalks thick and strong to support the heavy yellow flowers. Looking at them, he’s so happy he could weep.

He selects the two biggest ones and gently, carefully works the roots out of the soil they were born in and moves them to their new homes in the clay pots that have been waiting for their new residents. He attaches a note to one of them and loads them up in his car, strapping them in like they’re children and driving more carefully than he has in his whole life.

He gets a couple of funny looks tromping through the nice apartment complex with a big ol’ sunflower. He doesn’t want to make her see him, so he simply sets the pot on the welcome mat and rings the doorbell before scurrying back to his car. He’s gardener Santa and he still has one more delivery to make.

When he gets into his car, he sees her opening the door and he holds his breath. Hell, he wouldn’t blame her if she kicked the pot over and left it there, but she doesn’t. Instead, Lucille goes for the note he attached.

_I’m sorry I always forgot. Hell, I’m sorry about a lot of things. Consider this a parting gift. I know the rest of your life will be better than what I could have given you._

He doesn’t deserve anything close to forgiveness, but she scoops up the sunflower and takes it inside with her anyway.

* * *

He’s so nervous when he drives up to Rick’s house that he nearly pulls the same ding-dong-ditch move, but he squares up with himself in the car.

“You’re a bad motherfucker. You’re not fucking scared of shit. Now go give that flower to that man like a goddamned adult,” he says to his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

He almost fucking trips over his own feet walking up the driveway, and wouldn’t that just be the perfect metaphor for his life if he managed to smash the pot on the sidewalk ten yards from Rick’s front door? But he doesn’t, and he readjusts his death-grip on the plant, stands on Rick’s welcome mat with the flower in his arms and a stupid, naïve hope in his heart.

In a twist of fate, Rick answers the door in dirt-smudged gardening clothes and his curly hair pulled back into the most unruly ponytail Negan has ever seen. There’s potting soil smudged across one of his cheekbones and Negan thinks he’s never seen anyone look so gorgeous in his whole life.

“Rick,” he croaks out, throat dry, “I, uh. I brought you somethin’.” He hefts the pot from one hip to the other. “I grew it. I know- _me_ , right? I was fuckin’ sure I’d kill it. I’ve never even had a fucking house plant before. But this is for you.” He offers up the flower, and Rick accepts it, looking rather stunned.

“You- _why_ …?”

“I wanted to apologize. _Again_ ,” Negan explains. “And apparently these fuckers take over a month to grow. Thirty-seven days, actually. So, you know, I fuckin’ figured…I could do a lot of growing in that time, too. Not enough, but…it’s a start. I hope it is, at least. I want to be your friend, Rick.” He laughs at himself, shaking his head. “Shit, I feel like I’m six years old sayin’ that. But it’s true. I like you. I care about you. I did a lot of fucked-up shit, and I hurt you, and if you never want to see me again, consider the sunflower a parting gift. Or- hell, smash it on the steps if you want. I couldn’t blame you.”

“I’m not going to smash it,” Rick says. “Sunflower never did anything to me.” There’s this way he enunciates his I’s in that sweet southern drawl where it sounds like an A, and it never fails to make Negan smile. Any _thang_. It’s cute as fuck. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I mean, really seen you.”

“Were you worried about me, Rick?” he teases, and Rick gives him a sassy look.

“Nah. It was nice not havin’ to call a cab for you at midnight.” Alright, he deserves that.

“I was waiting to grow a little. Trying to prove to myself that I could leave you alone. That I could be someone that didn’t make your life miserable.”

There’s the ghost of a smile on Rick’s pretty lips. “And now?”

“And now…” Negan lets himself hope one last time. “Now, I’m gonna offer to make you dinner again. As a friend. I’m gonna be selfish one more time and ask if I can try to prove to you that I’m worth keeping around. And if the answer’s no, I’ll fuck right off, I swear.”

God, he hopes the answer isn’t no.

Rick looks Negan over, and then blesses him with the most wonderful word in the English language. “Yeah. Alright. You know what, Negan- you can make us dinner.”

His smile is the sun, more radiant than the flower in his arms.

* * *

Dinner is baked chicken drizzled with a sweet-and-sour sauce of Negan’s own creation, and homemade dinosaur nuggets for Judith, whose palette can somehow distinguish between chicken that’s shaped like a t-rex and plain ol’ boring _adult_ chicken. She’s delighted by the dinosaur cookie cutters Negan brought, and even Rick is impressed that Negan knows that fun shapes can make anything more palatable for a four-year old.

After dinner, while Carl is washing the dishes and Judith is being entertained by a movie about talking dogs, Negan and Rick sit outside in rocking chairs, glasses of lemonade sitting between them.

For the first time since Lucille, Negan feels completely at peace. It’s a lot of things- the sweet-tart tang of lemonade on his tongue, the full belly, the soothing rock of the chair beneath him, the soft chirping of crickets as the sky grows dim. It’s Rick beside him, smiling.

“Thank you for dinner. Judith’s gonna be wantin’ dinosaur-shaped everything now.” Rick chuckles, and Negan has a new appreciation for the sound.

“It’s no problem, Rick. I like your kids.” _I like you._ “Not to be too forward, but…would you wanna do this again sometime? Or I could take you out. Whatever you want.” He’s just following Rick’s lead now.

Rick hums thoughtfully and sips his lemonade, making Negan wait for it. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Negan feels like he’s on top of the world.

A half hour later, he’s on the front porch with Rick after waving goodbye to Carl and Judith. Fireflies keep flickering out beyond the porch light, and one lands on the shoulder of Rick’s grey button-up, its light glowing for a moment before Negan scoops it up and releases it back into the air.

“Always loved lightning bugs,” Rick says with a wistful smile. “used to chase ‘em around for hours when I was a kid, try to keep them in jars with holes poked in the lid.”

Negan chuckles. “I always called them fireflies.” He wants to tell Rick that he looks gorgeous, wants to reach out and stroke the soft curls at the nape of his neck. Wants to press their lips together and taste the last bit of lemonade on Rick’s tongue.

Instead, he says, “I’ll see you soon, Rick.”

A flirtatious, teasing smirk tugs at Rick’s pretty mouth. “You’re not gonna kiss me goodnight?”

“I thought we were going slow.”

No sooner does he say it then Rick’s lips are dangerously close to his own and Negan finds himself robbed of both speech and breath. Warm, soft lips press lightly against his own in one of the most chaste kisses Negan has ever received, but it still makes him ache.

Rick’s still smiling when he pulls back. “I’ll see you soon, Negan.” 

He's halfway down the steps when Rick's voice calls him back. 

"How'd you know what my favorite flower was? I never told you." Negan spins on his heel, just as surprised as Rick, and it shows on his face. It makes Rick laugh. "You didn't know."

"I didn't," Negan admits. "They were Lucille's favorite. And I always forgot. I gave one to her, too. Left it on her steps. As an apology, and a goodbye." He rubs a rougish hand over his face. "I just thought, you know. It suited you." 

Rick's brow furrows. "How's that?"

"Because," Negan replies, knowing full well he's about to be far more corny than he should be, "you are my sunshine...my only sunshine..."

Rick gets all these adorable crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he laughs, and it makes Negan want to make him laugh again and again just to see them. "Shut the hell up, Negan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are!! The last chapter!! Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on this even when it took some turns, this was supposed to be like...4 chapters, max, and then it ended up being more than double that and I got a chance to write some Rick/Jadis, which I'd been wanting to do for a while. It got cheesy at the end, because that's how I roll, apparently.


End file.
